A poem about a troubled teen in high school.
|Most Likely to Fail
He had a wandering eye in a head that hung high.
Skinny and poor; always made mama cry.
He was late every morning a half hour or so,
stumble in to the classroom and put on a show.
Dressed in a Letterman's jacket he'd lifted.
Never a teacher heard, saying he's gifted.
Jeans always dirty and stained black from oil.
Ford hasn't run since he burned up the coil.
He'd hang with his posse down under the bridge.
His lunch, some raw hotdogs he took from the fridge.
Been smoking tobacco sticks since he was eight,
the kind with no filters; his smell you would hate.
Picking on nerds was his biggest delight.
Making fun of the rest; he would fill us with fright.
A knife on his belt and a gun in his locker.
He stuttered a bit: his report card a shocker.
Everyone's happy, he's locked up in juvie.
In months he'll get out, then none will feel groovy.
Well that's about all I can tell of this tale.
We voted John Harper, most likely to fail.