The room is cold-
I see the sun shine bright outside
I cannot escape the room's tight hold.
The untold rules I must abide
My mind wander not through hills of old.
Can I not see the square root of 63
That number is evil, evil i say
Or that Poe was obsessed with Psyche!
What poet wrote down by the bay?
Work and more work, there goes another tree.
Waiting for the ring of bells
Not the bells that Poe described
But the ones the end of the school day tells
that tell me when on the bus I'll ride
and home I'll gon- and goodbye I'll yell!