So as I lie here on my bed
and stare at each tall tree,
the voice inside my head speaks up
to write some poetry.
“Procrastination does much more
than boredom, don’t you see?
We know critical reasoning,
so let’s just write—shall we?”
By now you think I’m putting off
something of great degree,
but just sit down and listen, please;
let me explain, uh… me.
The summer of this year has been
not simply drinking tea.
Nor have its parts consisted of
a class and a study.
Of things to do, the awfulest
was the great panoply
of vocab words I wish I could
now burn in effigy.
But I digress, even alone
with book upon my knee.
You want me to just make my point.
I know; I hear your plea.
Tomorrow I must take a test
made by idiocy.
Don’t laugh—if you saw what they ask
I’m sure that you’d agree.
No, not until tomorrow night
at five will I be free
to (hopeful) never look again
upon the GRE.
