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His photographic memory
Snaps it up, on the blink.
Nothing rings a bell
As he pulls the other one, and thinks;

He’s a pop star in his head
And never down on song.
Anything he wears gets worn-out
Before it catches on.

Everyone he sees gets drawn in.
His first impressions last.
His revolving bookcase cluttered up
With pencil faces rubbed on brass.

So, while the other schoolchildren
Shout out he’s a prat
He zigzags off towards the bike sheds
With a weather-cock on his cap.

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