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My Latin teacher used to say
"Amo, amas, amat,"
As he hit me each time on the head
With a cricket bat
And then he would continue with
"Ero, eris, erit,"
Taking care to flatten all the bumps
Where he'd already hit

The man I had for History
Was old, as old as Hell
Indeed he looked as if he could
Have known Napoleon well
His name was Mr. Parker
And he terrorized us all
Just as Caesar once had done
With the Celtic tribes in Gaul

For Geography it was dear
Miss Fitzwilliam who would show
Us where mountains soared in Kandahar
And the Amazon did flow
She had obviously been there
As she had a nervous tic
And was fond of glaring in my face
While saying, "You little prick!"

My Chemistry Professor,
He knew his lead from gold,
Though drank so much I often walked in
And my blood ran cold
He'd be slumped across his desk,
Mortar board upon his head,
Then he'd mumble softly
"Damn the bitch! I wish that she were dead!"