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My Teacher Lost My Poem,
like a piece of Styrofoam.
We gave them all up, full of luck;
and now they’ll never come home.

Bright ideas that struck,
all the poems he took.
With the words from the mouth, all came out;
him losing them was a stroke of bad luck.

We forget something: he shouts.
It is now our turn to give out –
the things we have done, the loss of fun.
I gave him some choice words from the mouth.

He says it’s done.
Like an assassination shot with a gun.
Wrote it again; but never again
will my teacher lose my poem.