Bradly Spills His Beads

He had a sneaky tongue, it bent around his molars like a serpentine noodle. His Adams apple was an ever-shifting abacus that calculated words as if they were untethered beads. Mathematics were his clinical persuasion, a laudable science he hammered into a sterile impregnable language for bespectacled cyborgs, for he (the Bradly), daily taught snotty tykes who ponged of sticky, childish proclivities. Some teach, some kill the ozone of eager minds. We kids and Mr. Bradly were never meant for each other, but he did instruct us in the oily arts of disinterest, indifference, and inattention.