To an English Teacher, Getting Pwn'd

I just watched my high school English teacher on Wipeout, a show that has achieved success for one reason: schadenfreude.

Photo stolen from his FB page, posted by one of his many adoring students.

For some reason, I thought about a poem, and then proceeded to butcher it*, in order to commemorate this great event, and a great man.


The time Michael Jackson changed his race
We expelled you from the schooling place
Quayle gaffed and time went by
At home we dreamed of SDI.

To-day, to school all slackers come,
Shoulder-high we bring books home,
And set before you, graded down,
Essays turned in late, as you frown.

Smart dad, to scramble through mud spray
From wheels where platforms do not stay,
And distant though the field grows,
You just can't beat them cheating hos.

Eyes the foam pad impacts shut
Stop signs have your face done cut
And laughter sounds no worse than cheers
After you stop for a couple beers.

Now you will swell after the rout
Of lads that wore cartilage out
Those whom gear and piston outran
And shame died long before this man.

So set, before the blisters fade,
The stink foot on the desk of shade.
And hold to the English class up
The aged, wrecked rotator cuff.

And round that dizzy, beaten head
Will flock to gaze students unread
And find a grouchy Rosemead dude:
"Damnit, kids, the paper's due!"

*With apologies to A.E. Housman, all of my English teachers, and the American people