Hark! Verily I swore in class this day.
Ironically, ’tis all the great Bard’s fault.
For in the drama lesson on Shakespeare,
Before my beauteous students, not yet 12,
Did in my explanation of the prose,
Produce a faux pas worthy of this tale.
Though bawdy master be he through and through,
Of language truly craven and most foul,
‘Tis of his wondrous prose and sacred air
Grants him our worship and abiding love.
Thereby, the scholar urges forth the new,
Disciples to the alter of his canon,
Who sip the sweet elixir offered forth,
The colloquy of angels in their heav’n.
Wherefore then, scholar, dost thou sully thus,
The purity of innocence made flesh,
Poured from thy lips the putrid metaphor,
Unholy syllable starting with “s”?
Upon the stage, thou pranced with with cockerel’s charm,
Demands for all eyes focused on thy presence,
To cherubs’ prospect, venom thou spilled forth:
“‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war,’
Is basic’ly ‘We’re gonna mess shit up.'”
Clapping thy hand to thy offending mouth,
Shame rushed to cheeks as frothed and boiling blood.
Youths’ damnation eagerly awoke,
“The ‘s’ word she did say!” with unmasked glee.
Ignominy heralds forth iPads,
To capture pedagogical disgrace.
Promises to gossip far and wide,
will not be quelled or hindered in their pace.
Brought low, oh scholar, wilt thou be reborn,
To dizzy heights, authority unmaimed?