death to teachers all and break them on wheels for their whinging oh oh the youth care not for poetry who are gathered here to rebel only and nevermind their chains 

they all are bastards who so smugly thought their charges good or bad for wanting to be taught 

who stood like scarecrows with their hermit lamps declaring all dishonest who decried their camps 

death to them and damned their memories who kept the gates with words and numbers, told us of our fates 

the best of them were worst, who could have stood aside, released their hold, refused their charge to blind us with their lights