Her voice, a whip that crackled through the hall,
Each word a lash, each sentence a sharp call.
Her eyes, like flint, could pierce a student's soul,
And knowledge, from her, was a painful toll.
She ruled her class with an iron fist,
No laughter dared, no joy, no wit.
Her lessons, dry as dust, a barren land,
Where minds were chained, by her demanding hand.
His gaze, a judgment, sharp and cold,
He saw our flaws, our stories left untold.
Each word he spoke, a hammer on our pride,
Our efforts crushed, our spirits set aside.
He sought perfection, in a world of flaws,
And judged our work with iron laws.
His presence, like a storm cloud overhead,
A constant fear, a burden to be dread.
He sat upon his throne, a book in hand,
And judged each student, with a stern command.
No question dared, no voice, no right to speak,
His knowledge was the only one to seek.
He ruled his court with an unyielding frown,
And cast aside those who dared to crown
Their own ideas, their thoughts, their own desires,
And made them bow to his burning fires.