Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
My students Sit listening to jazz As they write and work First, They resist. Crying out, Why are you torturing us? How can that be music? Where are the words? Please put it on something new! I begin to notice The year goes on, Student's feet tapping Pencils scratching, Heads bobbing In time with Trombone Shorty. Who's this? What's this song called? Play it again! I can't the song has Moved on. Now Here is another one, older Guy named Davis. They don't like Him as much, I don't care though. All I hope is Miles' trumpet Blows away Those nonsense lyrics They think are music.
0
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
Jazz Class
My students Sit listening to jazz As they write and work First, They resist. Crying out, Why are you torturing us? How can that be music? Where are the words? Please put it on something new! I begin to notice The year goes on, Student's feet tapping Pencils scratching, Heads bobbing In time with Trombone Shorty. Who's this? What's this song called? Play it again! I can't the song has Moved on. Now Here is another one, older Guy named Davis. They don't like Him as much, I don't care though. All I hope is Miles' trumpet Blows away Those nonsense lyrics They think are music.
john-hill
Written by
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem