Yo, gather 'round, class is in session,
But I’m the one teachin’ this lyrical lesson.
Mr. Wright? More like Mr. Wrong,
With notes so dull, they too long for a song.
We flippin’ pages, but we ain’t learnin’ jack,
You call this history? I just want my time back.
"Copy what's on the board," yeah, I might pass,
But your notes got more filler than a late night class.
And no offense, but bro, where’s your chin?
I seen cliffs with more drop than your jawline’s been.
Profile lookin' like a thumb with a tie,
Talkin' ‘bout Rome while I’m tryna not die.
Got us yawning by the second slide,
With slides so bad, even Google cried.
You call this a lecture? Nah, it’s a trap,
Only thing historic is how hard we nap.
You read the book like it’s gospel truth,
But even cavemen had more spice in their booth.
We need drama, w*r, betrayal, and fire—
Not “turn to page 10” like we all admire.
You say “any questions?” then cut us off quick,
Your pacing's off b**t — like a busted drumstick.
You don’t teach, you preach, from a PowerPoint throne,
With facts so dry they fossilized in stone.
Still, you dress sharp — I’ll give you that credit,
But I’m schooling you now, go ahead and edit.
‘Cause this class ain’t a vibe, it’s a cry for help,
We'd rather binge lectures from a history elf.
So Mr. Wright, hope you see the light,
Let the class talk, keep the notes light.
We ain’t tryna hate — just make this tight,
And maybe one day, you’ll teach us right.