All for a number red on paper,
All for a figure, the bigger the better,
All for the satisfaction of elders around us,
Must we endure all of this.
All for the transient gleam of Hundred,
All for the hope of the myth of freedom,
All for the brand-new presents promised,
Must we endure all of this.
All for the fleeting one-day joy?
All for the one-week bragging rights?
All for the fortnight of some free time?
Must we endure all of this?
Is’t worth it?
Shall we endure it?
Alas, if only I knew!
Two months of mugging notes up,
O I wish our brains were so big!
They can’t fit in so much stuff.
The wooing tides of sleep beseech me,
My hand protests with every word;
My brain is sore, the cells indexed;
But nothing rings a bell.
Oh, don’t make another mug this up!
Oh, don’t put this down within a textbook!
Poetry, intended to be enjoyed
Is alas, now a chore.
