Senior School

I hópe that yóu’ll indúlge me júst this ónce

The pútting fórth my thóughts and féels in rhýme

I’ve thóught abóut this móment nów for mónths

So múch to sáy, so véry líttle tíme.

Líttle díd I knów what wás to cóme

A thrée-year báttle wáged on Áir Force - bláck,

On ÁirPods, PE úniform, ho-húm.

Cóuntless phónes were táken, gíven báck.

Toníght we gáther hére to celebráte

The wíns you’ve hád to gét yoursélf this fár;

Remínd you thát you háven’t lóng to wáit

To bíd your schóol and téachers áu revóir.

From thís, you’d thínk the jób was sóul-destróying

But thát belíes the jóy I’ve hád to sée

You grów from líttle kíds, at tímes annóying,

To yóung adúlts, abóut to bé set frée.

Impórtant fínal húrdles stíll remáin,

For whích you’ll réap whatéver yóu have sówn.

Year Twélve’s an óften árduous campáign,

Though óne I’m súre you’ll áll agrée has flówn.

Year Tén appéared to bé the yéar of lóve,

Rómance stárting, énding léft and ríght

The grápevine chát I tríed to stáy abóve

But sóme forgót that téachers stíll have síght.

But gétting hére takes móre than júst a yéar

Your páths to gét here váry fár and wíde

But cómmon tó you áll here, péer-to-péer

Are mém’ries thát will néver léave your síde.

The Yéar Eléven wórkload wás a shóck

“How cúte,” you’d sáy to pást you íf you cóuld.

The ántidóte - a fórmal. Súit and fróck

Some dáncing díd you áll the wórld of góod.

For móst you stárted báck in twénty-twénty

For óthers, éarlier, and sóme came láter;

Togéther hére and úp in Úpper Plénty

The chánce to táke stock rárely wíll be gréater.

Then cáme “The yéar that mátters” - nót my wórds

“I’ll génuínely stárt to trý,” you sáid.

“We’ll túrn it ón, we’ll tránsform ínto nérds,”

“Retúrn from súmmer bréak with nóvels réad.”

So lét’s rewínd the tápe back fíve year lévels

Báck to whén your hígh school yéars begán.

Sóme were ángels, sóme were chéeky dévils

For sóme we hád to máke a séating plán.

Trúth be tóld that’s móstly béen the cáse

And áll throughóut you’ve fóund the tíme for láughter

This yéar’s as múch abóut the SÁCs you áce

As tímes that yóu’ll remémber éver áfter.

Year Séven started wíth a báng - a cámp,

House swímming cárnival at Nórthcote póol,

But thén you hád to súddenly revámp

Your éxpectátions of your yéar at schóol.

Term Óne had bówling bréaking úp the nórmal.

Térm Two dówn at Bóunce in búddy téams.

Term Thrée you órganísed anóther fórmal,

Just cóuldn’t gét enóugh of thém, it séems.

The léss that’s sáid on Cóvid tímes the bétter,

On léssons táking pláce on Góogle Méet,

On hómework dóne by Góogle tó the létter,

On thínking thát you hád your téachers béat.

With thís a chápter clóses - bíggest yét!

A tíme we hópe will sét you úp for lífe.

Who knóws? For sóme of yóu you cóuld’ve mét

Your fúture húsband ór your fúture wífe.

Betwéen the lóckdowns óne year cáme and wént,

Befóre you knéw it, óne more yéar in tów.

Amídst it áll the bést-used tíme was spént

On páper plánes… íf you knów, you knów.

Make súre to thánk the ónes who gáve suppórt

Your párents, cárers, síblings, fríends, whoéver.

It’s éasy tó forgét, and lífe is shórt.

But théy’re the báse that hólds up yóur endéavour.

You cámped agáin Decémber Twénty-óne,

A shíp run tíghtly tó the códe of Híckey.

Móvie níght and sóccer bróught the fún.

For bédtimes thóugh you’d dáre not táke the míckey.

I’m knów I spéak for áll the stáff atténding

To sée you hére toníght, it mákes us próud.

Just knów that íf you’re sád that schóol is énding

You’ll álways bé a líttle bít Macléod.

With Cóvid óver, ón to stárt Year Níne.

Ms Cóchrane máde her óffice ópen-dóor.

If éver whát you néeded wás to whíne,

She’d lét you yáp untíl your thróat was sóre.

It’s pérsonal for mé this móment tóo,

For yóu’re the gróup with whóm I máde my stárt.

The fírst group thát I’ve séen the whóle way thróugh 

For thát you’ll bé foréver ín my héart.

When Míster Líght appróached me láte that yéar

And ásked me íf I’d jóin the Sénior Téam,

“Yés, but ónly Téns,” I sáid, sincére - 

I héld you áll in súch unmátched estéem.

For mé, and yóu I hópe, it’s béen a blást

Beyónd this nést I’m cértain thát you’ll thríve

I’ll léave you wíth this párting nóte - hold fást,

And bíd adiéu the Cláss of Twénty-fíve.