Compounding the Problem


You have a degree

That says you can tell me

If I'm right 

Or if I'm wrong.

You have a certificate

And even when I'm sick of it

You possess

Carte-Blanche martial law.

You say no child

Is left behind

You must think we

Are deaf, dumb and blind.

And someday they'll ask me

"Child, what did you learn?"

And I'll open their eyes

Their ears

Their hearts

To a system

That left me less informed

Than spurned.


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