Dear Sir, my favourite teacher,
I do not know where to start.
Perhaps with an apology,
For trying to steal your heart.
The attentions of a minor,
I am sure brought you despair.
I don’t care much for Byron,
But I do care for your hair.
Dear Sir, my favourite teacher,
Please forgive this wretched flirt.
I’ve a wild imagination,
For what lies beneath your shirt.
I know it is forbidden,
But the best things in life are.
I just really want to rag you
On the backseat of your car.
Dear Sir, my favourite teacher,
I’m aware of how I look.
When I glance up from the pages,
Of your recent favourite book.
I seek you, just to know you,
Just to make a life we share.
I twirl my locks and bite my lip,
To let you know I care.
So Sir, my favourite teacher,
Can my extra credit be,
Something that’s based around my strengths,
Perhaps more Chemistry?
You know I love the English,
And the scandals, you agree?
But the next thing that you study,
Oh, that surely should be me.
Hands Open 