The desks are filled with un-adults
Compelled by law to sit therein.
So there each adolescent sulks,
Their purpose there quite alien
To them—as if they hadn’t sat
There last year, and many years ere that.
We call them “students”—but in vain,
For none will study e’en a whit.
Instead they’ll grumble and complain—
With all their stubborn hearts resist
The efforts made to educate
Them and improve their witless state.
This wretched lot is left the soul
Designed to teach—ironic fate!
Instead of serving in their role,
They get to suffer these who hate
Instruction, taking home their pay
For baby-sitting all the day.
The pseudo-students dominate;
But still, the tutors come to school,
Their passion e’er insatiate,
In hopes of finding someone who’ll
Desire knowledge. Such as this
Will turn their sufferings to bliss.
A Student (rightly called) revives
The weary pedagogues, affirms
The chosen purpose of their lives,
An object for the disused terms
Of Pupil, Scholar, Thinking Mind,
Refreshment, Future of Mankind.
And given such as this to teach,
The happy Master labors with
Devotion; gaily counting each
And every effort worth it if
A Student shows the follow-through
To independently pursue
His learning. Sacrifices ought
Be made for these, and honor shown;
And any working Teacher caught
Preferring these to those be known
For Justly Dedicating Labor,
Giving those who’ll learn their favor.