Within Decatur’s school walls,

The youthful spirit frets and stalls.

A jail it seems, where dreams and chained,

And all our vibrant dyes are drained.

No choice to make, no path to take,

Just follow orders, stay awake.

The teachers live, they breathe, they guide,

Amidst the lifeless throng, they stride.

The government’s hand, firm and tight,

Molds future workers, dims their light.

For industry and gain they groom,

The classroom feels like pending doom.

Yet in this place, where freedom dies,

A spark of creativity lies.

The teachers, alive, may yet inspire,

To kindle learning’s dormant fire.

They show us how to think and question,

To see beyond this stark oppression.

In lessons taught, we find our worth,

And slowly, change takes quiet birth.

Decatur, a jail in youthful eyes,

Yet, a place where the awakened rise.