The lessons, the homework, the sleepless nights, so much noise. All while trying to keep on a smile with poise? How do those teachers, dressed in spiffy, pleated pants, expect us, the students, to go along with this dance? We are teens who work out butts off to please elders and peers. At night, I look at my list of homework and wind up in tears. Listening to your lectures with an outwright confused look because it's usually something we could've learned from a book. I have to deal with your kind for twelve years of my life, then off to college I'll go and take it in strife. Because you people are a large part of my time, all I ask is that you listen to this rhyme. So please unshove that stick from your rump, and every now in then give that struggling kid's grade a bump. I'm not asking for much, just a bit. Don't you see? Just stop telling us about your personal life. It's not important to me. Make your lessons more lively, so I won't fall asleep. And please stop with the jokes. You sound like a creep. I'm not being rude, just leaving some hints. And another thing. Before speaking an inch from someone's face, try eating some mints.       an outwright