The Perfectionist

Sit up straight.
Pay attention.
Listen up. Hurry up.
Write neater. Clean faster.
Pull up your pants.
Straighten your shirt.
These are the words of my everyday life.
But that’s life at a middle school.

I expect the best.
And I’d better get it.
My way or the highway.
Do it fast. Do it now.
Point-blank. One. Two. Three.
I have standards.
I have expectations.
You’d better meet them.
No time for dilly-dally.
No time for shenanigans.
No time for tomfoolery.
No time for anything.
Especially no time for flaws.
Work then play.

Yes, I always have some rebels.
Try to reverse the chain of command.
But I have learned that
a slap at the wrist with the ruler
seems to do the trick.
But in the case of some of the more tenacious students,
with their shaggy hair and constant “dude”,
I head straight for the referral slip.
No need to waste time for hooligans.
Some, make that practically all,
of the students detest me.
Face it, they hate my guts.
But I traded preference for perfection.
That’s the choice I made.
And I wouldn’t trade that for the world.
I, myself, did well in school.
And my teachers were a killer.
Who wouldn’t want a bunch of people like me
prevailing the country?