Cannibalizing Poetry

As it seems that my hits are significantly better when I actually post, but I have nothing new to comment about the world just at present, I decided to fall back on the tried and true method of cannibalizing old poems written during the more prolific day, even ones of which I am not particularly fond, such as the following. Notes so that it will be more understandable- our day was until 5:20, if you're trying to do the math, and division was the school's code name for recess, for reasons that escape me. With apologies to both Edgar Allen Poe (I had just memorized the Raven, so the beat stuck), and to my high school, against which this really is not a personal attack (It was really just something to say, not an attack piece):

Once upon a school-day boring, while about me, girls were snoring
Over many a dull and odious text-book of ill-written bore
While we nodded, nearly sleeping, gradually sad thoughts came creeping,
Cynacism slowly seeping, seeping through my every pore.
Thoughts of malice and of boredom seeped into my every pore.
Slowly seeped and nothing more.

Ah! Distinctly I remember, it was halfway through November
And each seperate day would find us no way further than before.
Eagerly we wished division, timed its coming with precision,
And to our sums would make revisions as we passed a moment more.
Passed a slow and tedious moment and survived a little more.
Wished and sat and nothing more

And the sodden, slow, on-going voices that were softly flowing,
Brought behind them awful boredom never felt before.
So that now, amid the droning of these sounds, I took to moaning,
Silently, inside bemoaning all these classes I abhor,
All the lectures and the homework and the boredom I abhor
Silent moans and nothing more.

Presently, my thought grew lighter and my passing fancy brighter,
As I glanced around the classroom, saw the clock above the door.
And though school at times was trying, now I laughed, sad thoughts defying,
For the minute hand was flying, and the time was half past four.
For the day, however horrid, still had crept to half past four.
Only fifty minutes more.

And today, what I have learnt, is that however good things weren't,
Still the day will finally finish, as it always has before.
And no matter how I suffer, as my day gets slowly tougher,
'Twixt it a me, a silent buffer, is that clock above the door.
A silent monument to courage is that clock above the door.
This I learnt, and nothing more.