Ode to a Professor

I wait in any class, accompanied by routine dread,

whether anthology or textbook, it remains in lap, unread.

The professor hurries in, expression too flustered

as the students fail to find a greeting to muster.

But no matter, for Professor smiles, completely unscathed,

beginning the lesson, for which notes Professor has not made.

And so begins the droning, with theses so feeble,

can this state of boredom truly be legal?

Twenty minutes in and I already require a noose

lest I begin protesting against literary abuse.

How very much I’d like to rip their degrees in half,

but not before saying, “How your last book made me laugh!”

And now I scowl when they find their own pet peeves exciting,

is that what they think of while marking my writing?

For then my words, so lacking in grace,

are returned to me, slashed, each err in red chased.

Oh, cruel fate! That paper, which took four hours to write

now lies in my palms, no compliments in sight.

I don’t care if it was the TA, my mind has been set:

I throw the professor a look of contempt.

But now the end has come, and my fellow pupils escape,

I watch the lecturer notice whilst ego deflates.

The professor smiles weakly as they all rush to the door,

a stained rubric, or two dozen, now littered on the floor.

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