“I said, whoever threw that paper, your mom’s a hoe”

Before the board, the aged tutor stands
Transcribing words, not knowing what transpires
Behind his back, where adolescent hands
Are crumpling looseleaf missiles to be fired.
The parchment tossed, the room o’erflows with mirth,
He turns, incensed: “Who cast this mangled ball?”
Oh, rue the day a strumpet did thee birth!
Thy foolish pride shall lead thee to thy fall!
Oh, churlish cur, thou shalt repent full sore!
Thou mongrel! Dost thou think I came to play?
I’ll catch thee out! Thy mother is a whore!”
In awe, his students ask: “What didst thou say?”
“Twas this: whoso that wretched paper threw,
Thy mother is a harlot! Yea, tis’ true!”