Written In A Classroom

English class is for
Really nothing more
Than the deception of the beast,
Whose sickly smile and ghastly guile
Bring us remorse at the very least.

She’ll pry and prod
And hope to God
That her work is done in vigor,
But all we know is this work blows
And requires too much rigor.

So here we sit
Pitching a fit
Of silent, subtle protest,
We’ll not lose but what we choose,
And she’ll surely spurn the rest.

Yet we smile back,
Our sincerity lacks,
But we care not of her opinion.
Hers is cruel, her smile full
Of torturous dominion.

So with a happy face
Meant to displace
The utter revulsion we reimburse,
We deceive the queen of mentality mean
With games and playful verse.