Mr. Willard Smith, who taught English 
and in his spare time loved to dance,
would offer a polite “Good morning” to his class,
and then, out loud from the corner of his mouth, 
he’d say, “Your mother,”
till some wiseacre had the nerve to holler back, 
“Hey, Mr. Smith. Your mother!”
Then, the dark epithet would echo round the room
and after everyone was Your-mothered
the words became de-fanged, 
and hardly poisonous at all. 
Fights never occurred, except two students 
wanted to Latin Hustle with their teacher 
at the same moment, this at the end
of a long, tedious morning deciphering
Holden’s, or maybe Blanche’s, woes. 
 
Two things you learn teaching:  
sometimes you’ve got to go with what works; 
and, most important, never get in the way 
of two females about to have it out.
But, oh, Smitty did, and it was the best dance
most had ever seen a middle-aged English teacher do—
among two young ladies who could really
shake it good.