Bob was late and Jan was really very tired.
She for fate, and he, for fear of being fired,
Compressed the metal to the waiting floor,
Confessed within to driving sixty-four,
And let it loose midst stress to play the happy fool.
Not in the least obtuse, and yet, they’re both in traffic school.
And by their sides are Mary, Sally, John, and even Jim,
Anticipating scary films and lectures dull, and bleak, and grim,
Lost to opportunity today in commerce and in study,
Cost in dank impunity, fear the teacher is a fuddy duddy.
Tension seeps within collective pores.
Apprehension sleeps, introspective snores,
Fears of hopeless hours of endless pain,
Tears and jeers, nor flowers of potential gain.
Resentment festers for the unjust writ.
Contentment? Jesters only know its bliss.
To wit: We do not wish to be confined;
We do not wish to be maligned.
This never was our blessed choice,
And ever will our muzzled voice
Resist in silence, thus we deem,
The grist of this unholy scheme,
To take our money, time, and pride
From home and honey off our hide.
Beyond it all we only hope
Instructor may not be a dope.
And if ’tis true that there is life
Beyond this brew of toil and strife,
We’ll do our best to make the most,
And through it all to make this boast:
Although the task was far from cool,
We made the best of traffic school.
copyright 1994, Thomas B. Sims