I Hate My Job
A Sonnet
Damn the students, bunch of slacker fuckwits who only care about sex, cars, and grass; take attention at the expense of class, and cascade their opinions like dumb shits. You were the one student I ever had, singular, solitary, my only, now everyday begins a new stoning and driving the bitter old teacher mad, howling to nothing with stupid questions, arguments on the altar of debate from children who just learned to masturbate that defend motte and bailey attestion of astrologizing our crossed stars saying and praying the moon guides our cars.
Well at the very least... it inspired poetry. Hope your job gets better soon.
unfortunate that your job sucks -- to teach,
to dream, hath many rubs, yet prithee, see!
you sit a softer seat than humble me,
who foldeth clothes, and is but paid for each.
i think that if your lesson be disdained,
you simply haven't scared them properly:
go show them It hath no monopoly
on terror, or on dealing loathsome pain:
it floweth bitter in my purple veins,
that sap of Yggdrasil the shady tree
where raven sits, and bleakly calls for me,
just as it called to Coleridge & to Shane.
i only hope you don't teach verse to folks:
your meter's like an Ogden Nash bad joke.