Dave Birss - Gob

The other lads
in my class
used to collect
their gob
on the end
of their finger
and lob
their stringer
of gob
at whoever they pleased.
At whoever the hated
or berated
or teased.

And I never
could explain to my father
the lather
of slaver
on my blazer.

Dave Birss

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gob/