Mr. T, I do NOT pity the fools who mess with you; I pity you.

I see you stand on your soapbox, acting like you have a clue.

You preach. Profess what you don't know, Professor.

Watch spitballs fly, Spit-too, spit-too! Indeed, why you?

Why shouldn't I stand up right now, and tell your class just what to do?

We can't all be in Ivy Leagues, (so say shabby shoes upon my feet)

 and learn from Ph. D's distant screens (one bombed test spells complete defeat).

(They don't teach students anyway, when researching in Zimbabwe).

Now, dearest awesome Mrs. D, a teacher of Biology,

let's keep this between you and me: I swear we both have double-D's.

Did yours come from having kids? I fear mine will sag to my knees,

if I do the same things you did.

I'd have to wrap mine 'round my waist, and make an inner tube of boob. 

 I wouldn't say I'm hot for teacher, but if I could ask your advice,

would you do both guys and girls? I, for one, cannot decide upon my vice.

It often grabs a hold on me, as soon as I think I'm home free!

How does one go about without feeling like a travesty?

I couldn't care less if you think every poem should rhyme.

My opinion of you, and my sexuality certainly do not.

So, enjoy the discord and just do your job!