Heaven forfend
that my classes would end,
because of Miss Reacher,
my peach of a teacher.
My parents desired
that I be inspired
to learn musical notes,
though I had no votes.
Though no valedictorian
on the piano accordion,
I stayed with Miss Reacher,
that peach of a teacher,
until she off and married,
and my squeeze box was buried,
and sports tapped my shoulder
until I grew older,
wishing in lessons I’d stayed,
that today I still played.
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