Song of the Puzzled Pedagogue

They leave it in these hands of ours to shape a nations soul;
   But were marching, marching down below.
For we havent got a leader and we havent got a goal.
   And we havent, no we havent got a show.... 
Eleven eights are eighty-eight.  And what should Alfred do?
And was he wrong to burn the cakes, or was the dame a shrew?
   Johnny Jones, hold out your hand!  My lad, you must be bossed!
   Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  Were the legion of the lost.

Weve got the drums to pummel, but we havent got a flag;
   And were marching, marching to the pit.
For theres none to lead us upward, and we loiter and we lag.
   And theres no one seems to care a little bit....
Now, the square of the hypotheneuse - Sam Smith, stand out of class!
Oh, Ive coached you, Ive reproached you.  Must you always be an ass?
   Youre growing up a gump, my lad; but do you count the cost?
   Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  Were the legion of the lost.

They leave to us the fashioning of citizens to come;
   But were marching, marching ever down;
But the guiding voice of politics is pitifully dumb,
   And potential leaders leave us here to drown....
Now, consider Kings of England, or consider capes of Spain,
Consider - Silence, Smithers!  Must I speak to you again?
   Well take the Latin lesson now.  Thats sure to be a frost.
   Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  Were the legion of the lost.

Square holes will not accommodate round pegs, and never would -
   Oh, were marching, marching to the drum -
And the dull, defeatist attitude was never any good....
   But - horror!  What a thought is this to come!
Supposing that our attitude the vital question begs?
Supposing that the hole were in is square, and we round pegs?
   Nay, lift the dirge and bang the drum!  Our creed must not be crossed!
   Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  Were the legion of the lost.