by Kenn Nesbitt
Our teacher’s not a zombie.
She’s not the living dead,
although she’s looking ragged
and her eyes are rather red.
She shuffles to the classroom.
She slowly drags her feet.
She shambles to the whiteboard
looking broken-down and beat.
We listen to her plaintive moans.
We see the way she strains.
We hear her mumble mournfully
about the students’ brains.
But we know not to worry.
We never get upset.
She’s always like this when she
hasn’t had her coffee yet.
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