To be or not, that is one thought that’s taught to me,
But it is plain, in this domain: top dog’s not me,

It’s exam day: I fear I’ve blown ontology.

I am aggrieved and slightly peeved as the teach drones.
Onto my plight he sheds no light; I stifle moans.

I’m short of time; I’m sweating now—drops mopped off me.

You know, I’ll be forever shamed
If my whole GPA is maimed.
On my first test I got a “B,”
But now an “F” I see.

But the class seer is sitting near, not far away.
Then my eyes roam to what he wrote—I’ve let them stray.

Then I write down all that is shown. . .a copy spree.
I’m feeling fine; rest of this crowd’s not toppin’ me.

You know, my grade point will be tamed
Unless teacher knows that I’ve gamed
The system as soon as he’ll see
I’ve cloned what’s next to me.

Oh, the class seer’s a plant I fear, ’cause the next day,
I learn I’ve cloned an “F”; he wrote it wrong—ploy play!

I got kicked out and then sent home:
Mom’s stroppin’ me,
Pop’s whompin’ me,
Mom, pop sock me.