The Witch in Room 317

We enter in your classroom
and you tell us all to hush
you start talking about the over head
you’re causing such a fuss.

You voice is so annoying,

Like an exasperated hiss,

It something that I tolerate,

But next year certainly will not miss

Your clothes are all quite funky
with all the blacks, purples and blues
they’re so dark it overwhelming
it makes you look rather like a bruise

Your hair has gone near greasy
it’s fading in some places
and looking rather limp
the chlorine is leaving traces

Next on the list we’ll go to your feet

The boots I fear have to go,

They’re ugly and don’t look quite right

They’re a little too pointed in the toe

Your grading scale is a little queer,

You’re harder than hell, but easier still.

Some papers a ‘F’, the rest a check minus
the process is confusing; it’s turning me ill.

After school you pretend to run
on the treadmill or through the halls
I feel so bad for your arms
they look like little girls' old dolls.

I see you sitting in front of the mirror,

So diligently applying you mask

I would question why you’re so concentrated,

But then again, I just won’t ask.