“Ahem,” said a toussle-haired young man in the back of the class. “Miss?”

The teacher stopped in her march across the room. It was the first time she’d looked the least bit out of sorts all day. She seemed to be thinking of whether to say something now or not, but at last she made up her mind:

“Mr. Yeats, I regret to inform you that I’ve turned over your paper to the school guidance counsellor to determine whether a professional referral should be made. Insofar as I was able to understand any of it – I think you’ve made up half of these words, nor am I familiar with all these consonant-laden people and places you keep referring to – insofar as I can comprehend it, it all seems to be smut. This latest piece about a woman being molested by a bird was the last straw, mister!”

She whirled around to another student. “And stop your smirking, Mr. Munro! At least Mr. Yeats signs his work!”