The hands that make me great are feeble
Laden with ideas of touching tool made
of breakable
Building castles out of treble
Running amok building and growing timble
and nimble
The teachers that made me great all
regret...
Far even as i did in lectures filled
with litigate
Wider or stronger, yet growing irate
Feeding slim and groaning dim in their
routine tirade
Their commitment are thrown out double
As i leave school, i use their sacrifice
in life to be humble
Showing the world magnificence, i forget
who made me toggle
Who should be great? My teachers or me
in this boggle?
Who are my competitors to restore these
feeble hands to glory
And restore smile to even those that
have died in gory
To offer comfort for their sacrificial
work of agony
And tomorrow everyone would want to know
the teachers story
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