On the cold wooden chair I sit,
Writing rhymes of youth.
The voice in the distance,
Pronounces me uncouth.
The ticks of the clock,
Taunt me shamelessly.
When will the bell screech,
I ask repeatedly.
Webs of mindless words,
Scrawled upon the board,
Kill the soul within,
As the others only hoard.
If only I could memorize,
All the superfluous lies.
The rose bed in the garden
Must be trimmed and wise.
The ants and the maggots,
Must all have their share at the end.
I must return to the soil,
Hail the gardener, the godsend!!
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