The Math Teacher

With light nervous steps, he trod in 

As one aroused from an upshot of gin 

And stood abashed, a shadow ill-prepared, 

His sealed quivering lips unassured 

Whether it be fractions or tractions 

Change of subject or meaningless expressions 

Pondering where and how to begin 

Whilst they continued their din 

Not heeding the unsettled guest 

Framed in the doorway aghast 

Clutching a heavy textbook 

With a finger locked in the nook. 

Read: Village Boy Impressions - Why God Does not have a Ph.D.

A well-pressed shirt that daintily sat 

And shoes black as night pat 

Were all they could admire of him. 

For he could neither add nor multiply 

Save by that book he held to comply. 

And he stammered badly enough 

To send them reeling to the north. 

He was thrust upon them without a session 

And they could instruct him with fair revision. 

But he messed up his very first lesson 

('He's killing us' she said) 

So they bundled whatever standing he had 

And sent it through the window hard 

Slapping their hands together as if to say 

Teaching Maths is not a child’s play! 

Image: laoblogger.com/african-man-teacher-clipart.html

This poem is a humorous rendition of the complaints of a Junior High School pupil about her maths teacher.