In time, her old friends forget
That she was one among their company.
Like knots cut by razor-blades,
The ties ‘tween them will fade.
Walkerville and the third grade awaits,
Science taught by the Frizz her fate.
But a field trip’s diff’rences inspire
The crushing memories whereof she’ll never tire.

She will speak at length of the place
Where she had learnt the three R’s with grace.
There’s a longing for home and a mem’ry that won’t die,
But the transferer’s speech is a lonely cry.

With caring, she has rescued critters’ lives
With seven friendly classmates by her side.
Taking chances, making some mistakes
And getting messy is sometimes what it takes.
At her old school, she never ever dared
See dinos in their lairs.
But with all the fun comes a foreboding thought
Of her old hometown whence she had been brought.

Phoebe, why long for what is no more
When you can go to the ocean floor
Or the centre of Earth or wherever science lives?
I’m not sure that transf’rring back joy gives.

Phoebe, why not embrace cosmos grand
When Frizzle blasts off in her seemingly bland
Yet magical bus? But perhaps I shouldn’t judge;
Was a transferrer, too, so I hold no grudge.

We both did transfer right after grade two;
We found our way in due course, me and you.
There’s a longing for peace and nostalgia that won’t die;
But you transferred again, so that makes me cry!