Wrong About Wright

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.