Mr. Devil


You're my English teacher, not my father.

You say that you're trying to help but please, don't even bother.

You have good intentions I must say.

But that attitude, at the door it must stay.

We know we can never trust you.

That "I'm here for you" attitude, is so see through.

You know you don't care about us.

You'd gladly through us under the bus.

I swear you are the devil.

You reek of rotting flesh from the souls in hells deepest level.

Please leave, retire, whatever.

Better yet, return to your home in hell.. forever.







Guide that inspired this poem: 


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