We put our teachers on a pedestal,
Until we age, and mature, and stifle.

They wear cardigans and reading glasses,
While teaching spelling and grammar classes,

And have an impeccably insufferable wit -
A world of puns amidst the world's dark grit.

So who would think that life's next station
Would involve discussing punctuation?

And passing that, believe it far -
Sharing drinks in a grotty bar?!

But here I am amidst my friends
(Despite not knowing them at ends)

Discussing the art of lesbianism,
Islam, clowns, and feminism,

How men are pigs and life is ****,
And how innuendoes always fit,

How therapy would be depressing
(Despite depression being the issue pressing.)

Oh, how girls can dance whilst sitting down
With words, and lips, and laughs and frowns,

With obscene gestures with their hands,
And tongues and drinks, and stories grand,

By uplifting life to a higher beat -
A rhythm that can trap your feet
And click your fingers.

English language teachers don't
Dance how I imagined them to...
And yet, I'm sad when the music's through
And my memory of them
And that simple, yet brutally important night
Lingers...