The sound of scratching pencils echoes throughout the room
Insignificant, but some scratches mean more than others.
The rustling of papers, the underlying murmur of talk
The occasional lines of music
Emitting from a contraband Ipod
The high-pitched tones of a nearby someone Texting
More haunting, the whispering breath of wind
Seeping through the cracks of the door
Perhaps it can carry aloft my prayer
That this test will soon end
And some distraction can lure me away
from my worry for you
You really are a beautiful idiot
For all your philosophical ramblings
You know nothing
Phil-is-so-fickle
Philosophical
And I'm not your toy anymore
I don't like your games
I always lose, and you're a sore winner
So I don't want to play
No, let's not play today
Insetad I'll try to pray
To some faceless entity, the God of Tedium
That this test will end
The bell will ring
I'll call you
And tell you
