to get a high school diploma you must be able to read at a twelfth grade level
this was in 1952
In 1972 we were told “an eleventh grade level is good enough”.
Today reading at a ninth grade level means that you graduate.
I heard that at a seminar this morning.
First grade, pelted with eggs
Second grade, broke both legs
Third grade, fell down the stairs
Fourth grade, clawed by a bear
Fifth grade, ran into a tree
Sixth grade, twisted a knee
Seventh grade, concussed my head
Eighth grade, fell out of bed
Ninth grade, had meningitis
Tenth grade, appendicitis
Eleventh grade, torn hamstring
Twelfth grade, acute bee sting...
So, to allay any fears from admission committees
I wrote the following college application ditty:
You may consider me somewhat injury-prone
But I have yet to break my first wishbone
And I give you my whole-hearted assurance
That I will use my parents' health insurance
I'm just a student at this big old school I do whatever is cool, yet I always stay prudent
From kindergarten to the eleventh grade, nothing really has changed, I am in the same classes
And I am just another guy, despite my genius observation skills you cannot deny
But I cannot believe the lies of the amazing awesome students that I see in my eyes
And every day I take my pill, I have to suppress the extreme urge to act crazy and ill
I feel like someone flipped my top, and stuffed my head with so much knowledge that it feels like it could pop
I was schooled, I was schooled
And I know that this sounds dumb, but I was fooled
Now I know, that no matter how many years I study with my peers...
I cannot fill the gaping hole in my soul, but this is how I roll I wrote this cause I'm bored, but this homework and this stress, it is a double edged sword
I know this isn't right
We kill all trees in sight
I AM SCHOOLED.
Those lullabies became a funeral dirge when your Mama passed away.
Then you studied love, and rock’n’roll, on the radio in your Daddy’s Chevrolet.
And that wedding organ music, it took Sue from you that sad June day.
You bought your first guitar so you could protest a war you didn’t have to fight.
But your best friend from Eleventh Grade, they played those military taps for him just right.
You got the news, and you got drunk, and sang his favorite songs all night.
You laughed at Country Music till some woman laughed at you, and left you broke and blue.
For the next two years, those old Hank Williams songs, they all came true.
Then some television gospel singer with a toll-free number saved the soul in you.
Your children love those nursery rhymes that Daddy takes the time to sing.
You hit that dance floor with your wife—she stands beside you in spite of every crazy thing.
And when that preacher reads those final words your friends will make their voices ring!
From your birth to the end, the music’s your friend,
And you were born to sing along.
You’re a little off-key, but you sound good to me:
You’re passing through life on a song.
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