It’s late in the holidays,

The sound of pen betrays,

The pain of the student race,

Going into year 11.

Do you want to hang out ?

I can’t because of a clout,

To my head, on the snout,

It’s called maths!

What an aberration,

I’m supposed to be on vacation,

Yet all around the nation,

We bash our head against a text.

Ah, you have so much time!

There’s no need to whine,

Just bend your spine,

And do the bloody work.

Maths is bad, I learn,

Oh mother, I yearn,

For a break from this turn,

Of horrid student fate.