In a dreary campus sat
Poor I, a poet, much perturbed
For I was realizing that
My odds of passing were disturbed.
Th’examination that I took
Was one on poetry, so I
Did not much study from my book
But sat the test, my brain still dry.
Yes, I could name poetic styles
Sonnet, Sestina, Villanelle.
I blacked out bubbles, full of smiles,
‘Til did important topics knell.
I can distinguish couplet forms
Iamb, Trochee, and Anapest.
Easily I fought these questions swarmed
But failed at what mattered best:
A final question on the page
The exam’s author failed to anoint
And my lack of answer caused me rage.
The question: “What’s the fucking point?”
