By Gavin Fowser
They throw their scraps and trash in me.
The teacher stands up for me.
I'd rather have a binder in me.
But yet they throw their trash in me.
Then, it happens.
The teacher turns me around and I'm not used as a desk anymore.
But still they throw their trash in me.
That’s it. I’ve given up. My only hope is the teacher.
P.S. This poem was written as if the desk could talk. Everyday, somewhere in
the school somebody throws their thrash in a desk and doesn't clean it up. I
wrote this poem in hopes that it will help students understand that what they are doing is littering, and hopefully they will stop.
But still they throw their trash in me.
That’s it. I’ve given up. My only hope is the teacher.
P.S. This poem was written as if the desk could talk. Everyday, somewhere in
the school somebody throws their thrash in a desk and doesn't clean it up. I
wrote this poem in hopes that it will help students understand that what they are doing is littering, and hopefully they will stop.
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