Report Card

The time has come; I'm filled with dread.
I calm myself: 'It's all in my head.'

I take a long deep breath.
Then I hand it to my dad, Seth.

It's the horrid three page card.
In a yellow envelope, cold and hard.

Yes, well done. You've guessed it.
(At least the report card bit.)

Seth opens it, takes some peeks.
There's only one mark he seeks.

And then he shrieks; faints dead away.
When he wakes up he will say: -

Oh never mind. It's far too rude.
But tonight I think I won't get food.

by Cheryl Cheng

Other poems of CHENG (45)

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