Ringlets of red, Eyes open wide. Headteacher usher’s child inside.
The room goes quite 48 eyes on me

Be nice to Violet she’s a Gypsy you see.
Confused and lost a bewildered child, dying with shame and pain inside.

Was my culture of vital importance? When leading a lamb out to slaughter.
Somewhere to sit Let’s find you a chair, I know we have at least one spare.
The grasp and the smile that seals my fate,

says to all, here’s someone new to hate.
My judges and haters all united in fear, what is a Gypsy, why is she here?

The last Gypsy ere didn’t smell nice, Katie’s kind welcome, and she had lice.
I bathe every day, I am no fool and I only get lice, when I attend school.
I hate that Gypsy, more than you do, Katie my dear, if this tale is true.
Why would you inflict that upon me, I sit here in judgement of my own ethnicity?

For maths odds and evens, reading is Tilly and Tim, I get the feeling she thinks I’m quite dim.
I just can’t wait for free choice to be here, the looks on their faces I choose Shakespeare.
Do I really have to stand and demand education, for just myself? or the Roma Nation?

For everyone else it was a long distant day, for me a scar refusing to go away.
I wish it was different, the stories had changed, but that’s not the case, just rearranged.
And then they ask me, why didn’t you stay. Well would you? If you were treated this way?

Violet MP Cannon