This is Just To Say…

 

If I don’t

graduate

because of

this test,

 

and you

could care less

how I broke

fingers,

 

sowing

with a pen

for you,

I won’t pause

 

to blend your coffee and apple with mud

and serve it with hot drink steam and a smile,

but submerge into scorching coals: your mug,

and drop in a pinch of cobra venom,

 

because frankly the picking favorites,

with the blind “eyes” on the back of your head,

their dearth of work and you're bluffing due dates,

how you have no sense of personal space,

 

your insolent posed perverted humour,

your drugs that we can’t buy, though I don’t mind,

massacre religious, political,

and scientific beliefs with rumors,

 

these need to go, so I can finally

know how to pass the End of Course Exams.