I'm standing in the back of my classroom as a film slides through the projector,
And I look around at my students, and I suddenly seem to detect a
Faint but present scent of boredom hanging in the room's stale air,
As if they think I should award 'em prizes just for being there.

Their eyes are wand'rin' and I'm wond'rin' as I start another day,
When the lamp goes off and the lights go on, well, what am I gonna say?

But I'm a teacher,
A high-school teacher.
Five days a week I try to reach
A group of kids whose fav’rite thing to do is waving me goodbye —
Will I still be teaching high school on the day before I die?

Now, on Mondays they're all wasted from the weekend that's behind,
And on Tuesdays they're all drunk or stoned, and deaf and dumb and blind,
And on Wednesdays and on Thursdays they're all "sick" and "home in bed,"
And on Fridays they're preparing for the weekend that's ahead.

Their minds are wand'rin’ and I'm wond'rin’ as I start another week,
If they refuse to even listen, why can't I refuse to speak?

But I'm a teacher,
A high-school teacher.
Five days a week I try to reach
A group of kids whose fav’rite thing to do is waving me goodbye —
I hope I'm not still teaching high school on the day before I die.

Now it's the sixth day of September, and I'm playing paper games,
With a brand-new stack of class cards and a brand-new list of names.
The names are different, but the faces sort of seem to kind of blur,
And I've given up on wondering, Maybe him or maybe her?

My mind is wand'rin' and I'm wond'rin’ as I start another year,
Won't the Patron Saint of Teachers tell me, why am I still here?

's Cause I'm a teacher,
A high-school teacher.
Five days a week I try to reach
A group of kids whose fav’rite thing to do is waving me goodbye —
And I will not be teaching high school on the day before I die.

No, I won't be teaching high school on the day before I die!

 

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