They're always so chiseled
A chisel, my nizzle.
A quaint little men's class,
a few with class,
some smelling of a gin glass,
some with eyes of a lass,
the remainder eyeing a lad,
but all glad,
and all present,
youngster of the present,
bearders of the crescent,
readers new testaments,
preachers of old testaments,
bearers of saffron tenets,
wearers of white tints,
weird lovers of croissant,
well, all here, will all hear?
we never know,
lets look at the show
The English teacher, said,
"how to drink a juice?"
i know, said bart the bartender,
"with vodka and chicken tender"
the weirded beardo now angry,
showed he was a shouter,
wanted to be a bart-ender,
while shushing the crowd,
use a pipe, piped up a voice, loud,
"huh" exclaimed preacher pastor,
"no smoking" he said, showing a guilty fluster ,
"no sir" said the voice,
I'm extra maker,
spoke the voice quicker,
Mr.White scratching head,
"I'm an ex-straw maker",
the air cleared.
Proceeding further, Teacher continued,
the class was listening, eyes glued,
"etiquette is important" he said,
"wear napkin before eating",
their faces changed,
pulse now beating,
Mr.White said, "sir, we don't bleed",
an irritated saffron Sundar spoke,
"if you bleed, education you don't need"
the English sir, now a sundered bloke,
calmed the masked fish market,
as his God's fate chisel hammered,
"Do you know how to fork?" he stammered,
a brief silence, and too many whispers later
"I Pen is use sir", said a bright face,
"Do you know how to use a fork?" he corrected,
with damage now done, Silence resumed.