The smell of the river,
The sound of the waves,
You can sense it, right through your liver,
You can picture the river's lovely caves.
The sudden surges of work,
People slaving away to get a descent pay,
The clock is ticking, the boss is such a jerk,
You just want to get out, and run to the beach to lay.
The romance, the tans, the beach,
You can picture these through a lense,
But like a big, blood-sucking leech,
A bell rings, and you hear the scratching of pens.
Finals week...
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