Excuses, excuses.

I have thought up a brilliant racket-
one that promises to make a packet!
I'm forging notes for the kids at school
and my composition would make you drool!
Like
'Claude cannot be at school today.
I'm afraid the psychiatrist locked him away.'
Or
Wayne is unfortunately very ill-
the doctors will have to give him a pill
but research may take them eight months, or nine
so he won't be back for a very long time.'
Then
'Henrietta is stricken with mumps
and her neck's come out in awfully big lumps!
No visitors should try to call-
she is infectious, after all.'
But my favourite excuse has got to be
the one for mistaken identity:
'Your truant Officer called to enquire
about a boy named Horace Maguire.
We have no children - he doesn't live here.
Perhaps your teachers have been on the beer?'
Five quid a letter is my modest fee-
we should be millionaires by 2003!

Author's note: Not bad for a ten-year-old, eh?