I wrote the following poem (well, doggerel) and read it to a middle school class at the end of my first year of teaching in the 1970s.

 

“Who’d Be a Teacher?”

To be a good teacher requires dedication,

For teaching’s a tiring, demanding profession.

Every day for nine months a teacher must face

A large class of students from every race.

Some fractious, some smart, but all of them keen

To bring out in the teacher each instinct that’s mean.

They wriggle and squirm, ask you to excuse them,

Until you are driven almost to abuse them.

They ignore the instructions you give them each day,

Their homework’s neglected or just thrown away.

They greet you with smiles so charming, so sweet,

As they tell you your homework assignment was “neat,”

But they hadn’t got time to do it you see

‘Cause last night they went to a big jamboree.

Then there’s always cub scouts, Awana Club too,

Or Mom had a birthday, or they went to the zoo;

Their cousin got married last night–it was fun.

But their homework? Gee, well, it just wasn’t done.

“I can’t get to homework when Dad’s out,” they explain.

“Why not?” you demand. “When Dad’s out, it just ain’t the same.”

As you begin to explode, they retort,

“He does it so I get a better report.

If my report is real good with no F’s and no D’s,

My Dad’s going to give me my own color TV

And a trip to Hawaii and a mini computer.

And Mom hates bad grades–they simply don’t suit her.

So Dad does my homework–I simply can’t add.”

You glare at the boy, “You incorrigible lad!

How will you obtain your high school diploma?”

He grins, “That don’t matter–my Dad, he’s the owner

Of several stores, and he’s promised he will

Make me an executive and pay every bill.”

You sadly ignore all the howls and the jeers;

You are tempted to thoroughly box all their ears

As you patiently say for the thirtieth time,

“Take care with your homework; don’t be messy, be neat.

Wash your hands; cut your nails; write on one side of each sheet.

Don’t talk to your neighbor; don’t glance at the clock.

When report cards are due, you’ll be in for a shock.

And don’t waste your time–it simply won’t pay.

Be industrious, honest, hard-working each day… … … ….

 

Yes, teaching is hard, an exhausting career,

But when June rolls around, we shed many a tear

For those squirming and grubby, recalcitrant boys,

Despite all the paddling, despite all the noise.

And the girls are just angels, for what would we do

Without all their questions and bright answers too?

We love them all dearly despite what we say.

Yes, teaching’s rewarding in a unique kind of way,

For teaching’s a privilege of the best kind,

A chance to instruct the tenderest mind.

It’s an honor to train a young student’s heart,

To watch the improvement, to play a small part

In the molding of character, intellect, skill;

To see the restuls of a disciplined will;

To point to God’s laws, see His plan for their life,

To encourage repentance, to avoid sloth, deception, and strife.

Yes, a teacher is blessed with the ultimate joy:

A chance to mine gold in each girl and each boy.