“Mark his utterance, O men. Thou art, then, a swotter.”
“I didn’t say so. Don’t even know what a swotter is.”
“Explain,” said the Chief. And one of the four, a freckled lad with red hair and a big healthy body, announced:
“A swotter is the sort of ass who mugs at lessons and thinks more of books than footer.”
“The Council will sing the Song of the Swotter,” said the Chief.
So the Council sang—
“The swotter is a rotter,
And we always make it hotter
For the swotter who’s a rotter—
Yes, we do.”