The Pudents’ Stupil‑Free Revelry 

On the morn of the Stupil‑Free Day,
the pudents came prancing in pudding array.
With spectacles spun from the moon’s silver thread,
and hats full of homework they’d eaten instead.

They juggled the hours in custard‑clock towers,
and watered their books with linguistic showers.
Pupillary impudence twinkled their gaze,
as they danced through the quad in a marmalade haze.

The Head Pudent piped on a spoon‑flute of jam,
while the rest sang in rhyme about “who‑what‑I‑am.”
They traded their lessons for riddles and rhyme,
and measured the day in nonsensical time.

When the sun tipped its hat and the moon took a bow,
the pudents all vanished — no one knows how.
But if you should wander where logic runs thin,
you might hear their giggles come tumbling in.

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