When I was young we had school shootings every day.

We called her “Miss Gestapo”, and spread cruel
Rumors about corpses in her closet.
She surveyed us with wintry eyes, no fool
And no friend. She would cram Math; somehow get
Through thick skulls the import of zero. I had
To get through forty minutes, but the crawl
Of time stood still. Just then Fred, who was mad,
Shot me with a spitball. She wheeled; glared; though all
Eyes were innocent. (Shooting puffs a sound
Distinctive). She turned back to the blackboard
As I chewed some paper. Fred turned around
And grinned. I loaded. Class gasped. My aim was towards
Not Fred. What possessed me I’ll never know
As I raised my shooter towards Miss Gestapo.

(This point may seem somewhat moot:
To cause commotion, you need not shoot.)