The fifth of March I sat before a book of history,
Reading up on Washington and John F. Kennedy.
I took a long and weary sigh, for life had lost its zest.
I was no Lewis, nor no Clark; I had no daring quest.
But when I saw the syllabus, my heart gave such a jolt,
Like Franklin when he flew his kite beneath a lightning bolt—
In history I had the next day’s class a Unit Test!
And thus, I had a mission much more urgent than the rest:
My grades called on my battle skills to save my GPA
From the same explosive fate as victims at Pompeii.
Erasers served as ammo, and a pencil as my sword,
I underlined the paragraph where Julius was gored.
I highlighted until the pages lost each bit of white,
Like poor Sir Raleigh’s colony that vanished overnight.
And when my roommate heard my deck of homemade flashcards shuffle,
She leaned her head out from her bed to see my anguished scuffle.
“Up this late?” she questioned, glancing at my syllabus.
“This says you do not have a test until the twenty-fifth.”
And now I know to check the date of each test during college
Before I wage a useless quest in desperate search of knowledge.