An ode to the first hour

now when you see things such as this, you know that somewhere down there, something is seriously wrong. With this in mind, proceed.

---


the alarm clock rings, it's 7 o'clock

and mefeels much like Socrates drinking hemlock.

for in an hour's time I would be

sitting and dozing in a class called MuPee.

Oh, for the non-BITSian reading this,

and wondering what on earth MuPee is,

MuPee is a health hazard and I am guessing,

it stands for Microprocessor Programming, and Interfacing.

Oh ye first hour, ye heartless soul!

do you really know how much you take your toll?

Nah, I know, you really do care.

Just as much I do about what Lady Gaga wears.

which reminds me, why do I attend thee?

when I would rather be dreaming about a chocolate tree?

But still I do, I'll never know why

just like why Harry Potter had a bowl of rye.

Not that he did, but he always could have,

just like the modern day driver who's using SAT NAV.

So back to the first hour, and the issues it raises

most of which to us, is what land is to water-barges.

For one it involves, getting up early

and then brushing all those teeth to make them white and pearly.


now yes, I know that sounded lame.
But you do know that the poem itself is the same.


now while brushing your teeth you need water,
which for us in winter, is like a colony of ants facing an ant-eater.


(... phew ...)


so once done with this initial ordeal,
one takes out his time table with absolutely no zeal.


oh, for the winter, and the warmth it begets.
when one is snuggling cosily under two blankets!


alas, those are, but dreams forever lost.
much like the woolly mammoth and the summer frost.


the journey to the mess is always fraught
with much hesitation for the student distraught.


for the food that is available there,
is reason enough to cause despair.


but when the tea is hurriedly drunk
he who wakes up gets a scalded red tongue


and all your hopes of cursing and swearing,
bite the dust with quite a lot of hair tearing


the trip from the mess to the bloody FD
is always rowdy, and seldom speedy.


and once, with trepidation, you reach the class,
the only thing you can utter is a throaty 'Alas!'


for there stands the teacher, grinning with spite
and waving white sheets with diabolical delight


the agony lasts for minutes fifty
after which the siren sounds, very very thrifty.


So up we get, and scurry back to our rooms,
perpetually dirty they are, for we don't have brooms.


and upon reaching, into our beds we dive
and shut our eyes for the time we are alive.


for death is near, and while I won't go that far,
for those will be chronicled in "on a third hour".

--

thank you Nickspinkboots for the truck-loads of inspiration.