In the voice-lit physics class,
Period after period, the time does pass,
And the teacher stands erect explaining with devotion,
in monotone with a sullen, stoic and serene emotion.
The duster freaks and the chair creaks,
The window screeches as the chalk squeaks,
But the class lies quiet, as quiet as a dead dog;
less due to the teacher, more due to cold and fog-
The fog that lies in our clogged brains,
So though she firmly stands and explains,
We light a cigar in our text-vexed mind,
And bask in the golden chalk-white sunlight.
And oh, though i post this online,
the class (PS) is (almost) not mine!