Let me tell you a tale of joy and woe
Where dreams and desires yours sit like a doe.
In fields without cover, they wait exposed
With calm and fear, their praise of God now closed.
Which Gods, you ask? The Gods of ACES, man!
Class picking time has come once more, and ban
From your mind hope! The morn is approaching
When down you’ll sit, with nerves strong enchroaching
Awaiting the tick of seven o’clock.
On time, one queue, and your schedule’s a lock!
If you click last, late! Joy slips out like sands
The desperate grasping of clammy hands,
Searching for weeks without math or four labs
Fleeing from horrors like Gross Chem! Or the jab
Of an eight thirty Monday Friday morn,
Or a teaching assistant from land foiregn.
Alas, one fights with one third of the peers
Attempting to win the War of Next Year.
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