Doom in the Classroom
This competition is a race with the clock.
A race, where only mere air particles can block me.
My hands dodge your hurtles, and secret tricks
Perplexing circles, and backdoor exits
Don't try to restrain me
Your attempts are in vain,
or if anything, entertaining
What will you do, when I reach the end?
Your ink and paper, at loss again
Numbers will run off the page
In fright of my enormity, and of my rage
That line, where you write your name
Keep it, as a memory
When I cross that finish line
I want a gold medal
Not a 'have your parent sign.'
Your red pen is your sword
But my will dubs me lord
And confidence surmounts
Any test or action of trounce
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