The second bell has rung so I begin to take my seat.
My hands drip sweat. My stomach turns. My heart quickens it’s beat.
I’ve dreaded the fruition of the moment now so nigh
in which I’ll take the final test, and maybe have to lie.
My first week with this teacher I was sure we’d disagree
about morals, and politics and even history.
He’s taught the class a million things so wrong in many ways,
and ever since his tenure, he’s made student’s minds his prey.
I’ve tried to list alternatives to his misleading jaw,
but I’ve suffered for it in my grades since he just can’t be wrong.
And when I’ve tried to tell my friends the things he’s said aren’t true,
they’ve labelled me as crazy, and my company eschewed.
I’ve written many papers which reflect what’s in my heart,
but out of spite for my worldview, he’s given me low marks.
And now the moment’s come at last on which my grades rely:
It’s either I’ll fail honestly, and pass by telling lies.
My hands continue shaking as I turn the test’s first page.
And question after question I despair because my grades
will plummet to a failing mark, unless I acquiesce
to my teacher’s stark agenda, here disguised to be a test.
I wish that he could understand the puzzle here I face:
The slaughter of my conscience at the hand of passing grades.