Dance on Graves

You, oh teacher who knows no weary soul, let your students dance on the graves
of those who fought and those who died and those who frankly had no direction
and though why not pick up a gun, you treat history like it does not matter and
perhaps you are right except that you are here.

You are here to reward children for mediocrity and celebrate the thousands
daddy paid for you to drink and drug your way through four years of preparation
so you can go home to make love to a husband that might as well have been
assigned, even though he hasn't touched you in months.

You are here to convince yourself that you are in love with their innocence
but with love comes envy so where there is no envy you are left with pity
making no effort to remedy what you insist is wrong because you would
rather gather yourself before the charter bus home.