A good teacher? Experience sly

A good teacher? Experience — sly. 
It won’t wipe your tears or explain why you cry. 
It charges in silence, then chuckles with flair, 
While tossing you straight in the cold, prickly air.

It sharpens your wits with a slap and a grin, 
Then watches you trip as you bravely begin. 
You argue? How charming. It nods with a smirk, 
Then hands you a rake — “Go ahead, make it work.”

It tidies your thoughts like a grumpy old maid, 
No hugs, no warm cocoa — just debts to be paid. 
It teaches till death with a stiff upper lip, 
And leaves you a bruise with a “Cheerio, pip!”

You’ll stumble, you’ll strain, and at times you may cry, 
But don’t let the pain be your reason to lie. 
Keep walking through fire with a tea-loving smile — 
Each scar is a seed — it will bloom in a while.

Each lesson’s a ladder, though missing a rung, 
And climbing it hurts when you’re foolish and young. 
You’ve chosen your path — don’t just stand there and pout, 
Mistakes are quite British: we just tough them out.

Don’t trust those who whisper: “You’ve earned a long nap,” 
That’s code for “You’re stuck in a comfort-zone trap.” 
As long as you’re breathing, keep pulling your load, 
With tea in your flask — it’s a long, worthy road.