Another year, another round.
Third time's a charm and yet none I've found.
Thy upper division courses slay me,
The level of work is damn near deadly.
One would think I'd crumble,
but I've yet to fall.
I've taken the occasional stumble
and woken up with no clue at all
as to why I feel like I've forgotten something.
One would think I'd be used to this feeling.
Junior year, thou art a heartless beast
with unaccompanied stresses and books I've yet to crease,
I can almost hear you, laughing at my slack.
Well just you wait: after next year, I'm done. I'm not coming back.
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