These words are not for my past teachers

Who’ve tried and played their part

They are, instead, for those of you

Who lack compassion in your heart

For those of you whose sole concern

Is your pay at the end of the month

Instead of the kid who struggles in class

--Who can’t afford his lunch

For the teachers who carry themselves

As though they hate the job they do

Well—us kids—we pick up on that

It makes us hate it too

We see you choose your favorite

And your enemy each year

And we notice the way you choose the hand

Of whom you’d rather hear

He doesn't get the lesson still and doesn't want to bomb

But his tired hand falls down as you move the lesson on

This game's gone on for far too long

His hope in you is gone

One test after another

With less-than-decent grades

He’s slipping right before your eyes

You turn your eyes away

You brush off the blame that’s been placed on you

And go blind to his looks of contempt

We know you don’t care about his future

We’d be damned if you’d attempt

Just know that your long drive to work

Holds nothing to his sorrows

For each of your tears he’ll shed a thousand

Once he finds he won’t graduate tomorrow

To think this could’ve been helped by answering a single question

He was so set he could almost taste it

—He could have been his best then—

Listen.

Another mind is wasted.