I am usually a patient one, Not quick to raise my voice, But you are just unbearable, To think this is by choice! Your dried-up jokes don't humor me, Your "witty" little smile, Is just as sickly as your face, Pasty, cold, and vile. The sarcastic hints you drop towards us, The so-called "subtle" digs, Are as obvious as elephants, You treat us all like pigs! While insulting our intelligence, You dare to wonder why, We don't answer every question With enthusiastic cry. The reason we don't answer, We only sit and gawk, Is we've never seen a loathsome slug So well equipped to talk! Your presence is offending, And I try to be polite, But it's hard to like a frothing mass Of repulsive, putrid blight.
Reason for writing:
This is a poem I wrote about my Algebra II teacher while I was rather angry with him. Upon reflection, he's not quite so bad as I make him out to be. I suppose it would only be fair to him and his teaching abilities to take out the word "putrid" in the last line. And yes, I do have a math complex.
Birth sign: Not entered
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