It’s that time of year again.

Labor Day rolls around

and summer comes to a disappointing close;

so ends our brief, innocent repose.

We're back in those uncomfortable desks

We’re sitting, staring back, right under your nose.

We’re back to thinking Pretty please, put off polyphonic prose!

We gripe and groan, mutter and moan

What the illness is, no one can diagnose,

Besides radical social change was more than what WE can compose.

It’s that time of year again.

The educational system’s reputation,

victim of whispering campaigns

or unfixable fault of a corrupt nation?

Labor day rolls around

and summer comes to a disappointing close;

so ends our brief, innocent repose.

We’re back in front of those uncomfortable desks

We’re standing, staring back, with you right under our nose.

We’re back to thinking It is just the way it is, I know.

We worry and wonder, blame and blunder.

What the illness is, no one can diagnose,

And besides radical social change is more than WE can compose.

It’s that time of year again,

suddenly brimming with answers brought to light,

with the potential cure I’ve just recently ascertained,

I wonder:

Unrealistic idealism or a solution in the right?

Labor day rolls around

and summer comes to a rapid close;

so ends our brief, but busy “repose.”

We’re back in front of those uncomfortable desks

We’re standing, smiling back, hitting “caring” on the nose

We’re back to thinking This is hard work, I know.

We care and cooperate, appreciate and advocate

What the illness is, is simply lacking teachers that glow

We need to care, to share, and to be sure that it shows.

Besides, radical social change is exactly what WE can compose.