School Of The Future

“Good morning, class!
Welcome to the first grade.
I am your teacher,
Ms. Aleister Cade.

Now take out your pencils
And see on the board
Your entrance exam:
What’s the strength of a cord?

What is the inverse
Of Tangent eighteen?
This is a problem
You’ve already seen.

And what is the compound
H2O?
You’ll fail first grade
If you do not know.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Cade?”
“Yes, Principal Mann?”
“You have a new student,
Elizabeth Ann.”

“Children, please,
Let ‘Lizabeth pass.
Let her introduce
Herself to the class.”

“I’m Lizzie Ann Smith,
And I just turned six.
My family just moved
Here from the sticks.

My favorite film is
The new King Kong.
I am with child,
Over eight months along.”

“Now class”, said the teacher,
“Does anyone know
How a six-old
Makes a baby grow?

With food, maidens chosen
By rules that don’t last
Are coated with steroids
To make them go fast.”

“But teacher”, said a boy
From the back of the room,
“Doesn’t that crowd the world,
And lead us to doom?”

“Jimmy, there will come
A foodless day,
But the worthy will make
It through anyway.”

“But teacher, this test
You’ve chosen to make
Is way too hard
For children to take.

What about No
Child Left Behind?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t
Apply to your kind.

The curriculum for
This lovely state
Says we must weed out
The dumb and irate.”

“Ms. Cade”, said Lizzie.
“May I be excused?”
“To do what, may I ask?
I don’t like being used.”

“Ms. Cade, I promise
This isn’t a joke.
I have to go now!
My water just broke!”

“We don’t have the budget
For gifts of the womb.
Just walk it off
In the girls’ bathroom.

Your parents caused this,
Though they never knew,
By crowding the world
With the love that they do.

It’s the filter process
That keeps us alive,
By giving a chance
To the ones that will thrive.

I feel no remorse for
The filter of School,
Which separates well
The wise and the fool.

The maiden filter
Does bother me too,
But we can rest knowing
The chosen are few.

Now, ignore her, class.
Let’s study religion.
We’ll skip the chapter
On Jesus’ mission.

It matters so little
To a mind well composed.
Faith is a crutch
For a mind that’s closed.

Just then, Lizzie stood
And raced to the door.
“Lizzie, you’re making
A mess of my floor!”

Then Lizzie shouted, as
She dashed through the rows,
“You guzzle your crutch,
And shove it up your nose.”