A teacher with a nasal voice
Droning on with as much passion
As we listen with; none.
The whirring and intermittent squeaking
Of the ceiling fan which has
roofed over God knows how many
Indifferent young bloods
That sat on these very benches
And contemplated, maybe over
Their own nasal voiced ghoul
Or how this wasn't true knowledge
Or maybe how nothing is worth it anymore.
These "guides" that force feed us facts everyday
Like a mental patient being fed his meds
I don't think I'll ever get out of this asylum.