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!