Square Root
I wished him dead
every time I sat in his class
I wished he were dead buried
not someone I had to face every day
I would only have to glance up at him
writing formulas on the black board
the drone of his voice
and wish him dead
he would always call on me
to read out what he had written
I picture his brain exploding
bloody cosines gush from his nose
all over his spotless white shirt
I wanted a sharp steel edge
on my protractor
to cut out his heart
save the class from algebra trig calculus
his stories of sailing
how he figured directions
with his slide rule
die die die
so we can figure out the angle
to bury you so your rotting corpse
will slump into your penny loafers
bones a jumble of secants
and underpants
the formula on the board
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