Sitting there in English class,

Just waiting for the time to pass,

We felt that first rhyme forming,

And our inner poets forming,

For the planets had aligned,

Giving the chance to find,

Inside us words that of a rose,

Bestowed upon us by the gods of prose,

So we took our glass half full,

And made beauty from the dull,

We penned our inner feelings,

And rhymed some shady dealings,

Thus beginning life's new chapter,

Where mundane is not our captor,

And the only limit of the pen,

Is the imagination of all men,

Some laughed and others cried,

Reading the poems we did not hide,

While to those who simply passed us by,

And did not get to know us try,

I'm sure that we must have appeared,

Maybe smart but mostly weird,

For wasting our precious time,

On the pleasure of rhyming rhyme.