No, matter what the teacher asks
I'm always at my own tasks,
Sitting on my last bench I always sleep
But when the exams come I always weep,
The teacher has come and he has gone
Sitting on my last bench I always yawn,
On my last bench come the sweetest dreams
But they always end when the teacher screams,
Looking at all this I sometimes try to dream
That one day I'll also sit at the front and become
the nation's cream.
Even then I will love this sorrowful trench
Because I'm writing this poem on the same last Bench,'
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