A rite of passage, a terrible test,

Between fifteen and sixteen years.

They tell me that it is for the best,

But that doesn't extinguish my fears.

My number is called, and so on I go,

Toward either freedom or doom.

I try to remember the answers I know,

And expel the perpetual gloom.

But in reality, 'tis not that hard,

The prize I am striving to earn--

Transporting rights in a small plastic card;

Now I am permitted to learn.