Agonies of a Pen

My master makes me to weep in class the habitual error he makes causes me tears with no pay I dig for him many gardens never once has he harvested from my sweat He is beaten and abused before me in class and my back is often broken by the teacher When he fails to tell me what to write my head he bites and pulls out my intestines I am simply a pen in hands of my master, not his brain, not his parent, not his fingers I do not know why I am taken to high classes when the right place is below- down, down If I had a voice, if I were strong enough I would refuse to dig in his barren gardens