A poor disillusioned teacher dreams of a way out of teaching.
Dear Lord, please let me win the lottery.
I could go into class with a grin,
And not care what the monsters throw at me,
Nor about their never-ending din.
Not worry that most don’t know tables
And that writing and spelling’s so poor,
Or that Tom is flattening Nathan
And grinding him into the floor.
I could let them run riot in gymnastics
And ignore anybody that falls
And in games they could do what they wanted
Who cares if they lose all the balls.
And when parents come in to see,
I could say what I really think,
That their angels are lazy and useless
I could create such a stink.
And when paper work builds up as always,
I’d smile sweetly and do not a jot,
But I’d pile all my files in the playground
And cheerfully set fire to the lot.
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