His battered old desk is a pulpit
From which his shabby sermons are spoken,
To a congregation of culprits
Who think that rules are meant to be broken.

They rarely listen to him these days,
But then he rarely delivers with any zest.
A monotone murmur of poems and plays;
Below their noise and above their heads.

A bother of dust; he creaks and groans,
The lessons he loved lost in history,
And through his beard nest he quietly bemoans
How extinction crept up on him quickly.