Parents. Teachers. Groundskeepers. Guests.
Correctional Officers. Fellow parolees.

What shall we do when we have our own kids?
Give them twelve year bids after the bars come off the cribs?
Work within the system? Make them listen to the darkest lecture
in the architecture of a prison full of purity-scarred security guards?
It’s sure to be hard. Recess! Rush hurriedly to the yard.

Back-to-school nights are visitation rights and boredom is the warden. They’d be less ignored in private schools but can you afford them? Even then they’re fair to middling. They fiddled with inmates’ diddles and now they’ve got the Ritalin. A.D.D.: Another Dumb Doctor’s complicity. I’m about to Sub. Stitute teach? No, T.R.A.C.T.

So when the states fail and they can’t make bail, we’ll hold a jailbreak fake bake sale. Slow on the uptake? Well, below in this cupcake, there’s a file a mile wide with St. Assisi’s SATs and a reviled style guide.

Current Events.
Comparison/Contrast.
Cause and Effect.
Embarrassing bombast.

Five Paragraphs each get a topic sentence or “hook” for pop ascendance. So much plop, of course people stop attendance. This court loves to drop defendants. Allow me to leave an illusion dispelled. 98% of the graduates matriculate because it doesn’t count the kids expelled.

We could rehabeducate with art but we ain’t got paints. You can take your budgetary constraints and fudge it up your hairy taints. That means you, Principal Asswipe. You were worse for class than sass or grass in a glass pipe.

This isn’t hyperbole. It’s reality verbally.

And we don’t want weekends.
We need every day between.
If you might die when you’re twenty,
then you’re old when you’re fifteen.

I know! I’ll reopen the Black Mountain School
and bring back to us the abacus as a counting tool.

Y’all know what time it is. This is my Bauhaus.
We run around when it’s nice out and nobody kowtows.