As I to the teacher commend these sheets,
I hope only for a grade which might float.
That is to say, one that would not
Fall under the deep “C.”
Ah, but getting it back I find,
My hopes have been in vain. I must
Have cursed them when I tripped over my
Backpack and hit my head upon the desk.
But no, it must have been the sheets themselves,
In revenge, lowering my grade.
Oh test, did you come from the hangman’s tree?
And was your trunk hewn by murderous hands,
And the high-reaching branches which were chipped
Take on some of that evil that they once helped?
And being ground into pulp, desire vengeance?
Or perhaps when bleached to make the sheets glisten
With the color of pure snow, the solution drained
All nobility and love from you as well.
Oh then I see, you evil fiend that administers
The smallest but the most painful cuts,
That my misery was not of my own fault,
But of your volition.