The Maths Teacher
By hilary west
Mr. Wickes loved his maths,
He set his boys on all the right paths.
With logarithms and ninety degree angles,
He knotted their brains in a variety of tangles.
But all of the time he knew himself,
That not everyone for maths is meant.
So if a boy could not perform
He didn't rant or rave or storm.
He was in fact quite understanding,
He knew his maths was oft demanding.
No boy was hurt nor once insulted,
But left to himself, no senses blunted.
For someone who could never grasp
The probability of random chance,
It was a boon that Wickes didn't care:
I was quite happy with that quality rare.
And when in fact exams came around,
No one uttered any sound.
He read the marks, they were quite low,
Out of a hundred, twenty four.
But tangents and equations just weren't for me,
A mathematician I could never be.
Respecting this Mr. Wickes said nothing,
As if he knew maths meant suffering!