Everyone Hates Mr Tate

Say the children in middle school.

It has that jangly rhyme to it,

Just enough clang for chanting it.

Let us contemplate Mr. Tate,

His name being taken in vain

By unfortunates on the bus

Who have no one to pick them up

From these ex-urban nerve endings

Of all-American learning—

When did his decision hit him,

That he should be a school teacher?

And did he ever consider the state

His career would have to be in?

The kids on the bus would, loudly,

Chant Everyone hates Mr. Tate.