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Mr. Ivan, The Principal Poet

Recipe for Trouble


Eighteen boys in a classroom
Is "trouble served on toast."
Or, if you were a doctor,
It'd be bad news to diagnose.

I pity the girls in the classroom.
They have to put up with the noise,
The confusion, the messing around,
Cooked up by eighteen boys!

How'd you like to be a teacher
Of boys numbering ten plus eight?
No teacher in her right mind
Would crave that full a plate.

Poor poor teacher of eighteen.
Problems runneth o'er her cup.
With a class of eighteen boys
Always stirring everything up.

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Article by Ivan Kershner
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