The torture that now I feel
Seems so horribly unreal.
Listening to some music of the past,
Not quite sure if I will last.
You must work, draw, or read,
You must definately take heed.
When the teacher says it’s time,
That when I begin to rhyme.
Some draw fancy guitars,
Others dream of being stars.
Some hope that Jesus will come,
And promptly take them home.
Of what we all could possibly know,
Something we would love to miss so,
It must be that this Study Hall
Means quiet time for one and all.
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