Period 4 Lunch

The bell tolls,

He strolls,

Into a cavernous room,

His face suggests a sort of gloom,

Hurtful eyes glare,

More eyes stare,

He scrambles through the procession,

fighting the oppression,

not a seat is left,

an ironic sort of theft,

his friends glance at him idly,

until one of them motions mightly,

to take a seat,

to come sit down,

There is some sort of hope,

left for mankind