The Last Bench
The lecturer speaks,
Few smart eyes are popped towards the whiteboard,
Few virtuous heads are elevated to an angle of 30 degrees,
Few Romeos are trying to impress the girls in front of them,
Few drowsy eyelids are opened- probably in the name of law,
A stupid young fellow looks, acts, and behaves- precisely like a gay,
Adding flame to the fire,
In my state of being positively nonsense.
My mate gets afraid,
Every time I make noise.
Nevertheless of the ongoing theatrical drama
We two sit in the last of the row,
And making fun of the fools.
Underneath our bench,
Lies a wasteland of wrappers.
There are no penalties for overachieving,
And no rewards for being decent either.
But will the class ever know the sweetness of chocolates we have?