When I get up to do my work each day,

There comes a point for me to dare proclaim:

Will this soon pay off, this mound of delay,

Or will it make my life be put to shame?

The math seems endless, O what fright it brings,

And English, why does writing give a scare?

The Spanish, O my heart aches with such things,

And lastly, science remains for good prayer.

And that excludes the thought that sports prolong,

The tiring onslaught brought about with track,

The neverending runs stretch miles long.

They kill my calves, and ouch! Was that a crack?

My parents do this to prevent my fate,

They put me through this because love has weight.