The Class Without Learning

The quiz, this quiz, from where did it come?
The subject of it is unknown
This quiz is our plight, of what will we write?
My brain from this class has not grown

For ev'ry day our hands they do hurt
Because of painf'ly long notes
And also our eyes, of fear they'll dies
'Cause we can't read what he wrotes

Instead of class he does talk to us
Of stories without relevance
How he's shot in the butt, and his police's price cut
And his overall malevolence

Of course he does show us videos
With class they have little to do
Most people just sleep, and silence we keep
With boredom we do all turn blue

His voice it is that of a yankee
The class is just of his life
The hist'ry's replaced, the class is defaced
We're doomed with low graded strife

And yet he gives us these useless tests
Of which he never does say
The subject it's on, the torture goes on
And low do all our grades stay

-Keith Smithson-