Why must I make my poem rhyme
she scoffed as though it was a crime

Seven and three quarter years
beneath her belt, she held back tears


Because, the teacher slowly said,
it's how it's done and how it's read

Now finish please and when you're done
off to recess quickly run


'But what if what they've done is wrong'
her body small, but head so strong

The foot she stomped sized merely three
her ribbon tied so carelessly


What ever do you mean my child?
And what is making you so wild?

A poem rhymes a bird it flies
but not a chicken, though hard it tries


Now tell me what's got in to you?
What is it that you want to do?

What are these words of which you speak?
That make you make the floor boards creek?

That make raise your voice to me?
The one who knows how things should be!


The little girl walked to her chair
Her poem waiting for her there

And tried to see the paper clear
though far she could, could not see near


And when she spoke her words aloud,
she stood so tall, and looked so proud

'My teacher is the greatest, the best I've ever had, I love her and she is  the nicest and most smart'
        the young girl cried with all her heart.


The teachers eyes welled up with tears
having spent a hundred thankless years

Wiping noses and reprimanding,
with parents always so demanding


And looking round the empty room,
it suddenly lost all it's gloom

She picked up the girl and held her near,
' To hell with all the rules my dear'

And from her apple took a bite,
and said I was wrong and you were correct