It is early in the morning on a weekday
And I must get ready for school once again
With blurry sight I must focus all that's gray
For an unguided tour through memory lane

After reaching my hand over the alarm clock
A terrible source of nuisance's silent
Although, it is more bearable than chock
Up to the point, when it becomes violent

The light coming from underneath the door is dim
Ague, ensues feet touching tile cold as ice
Then two hands rub my face to rid of any whim
All this hastily takes place, in a trice

But I then learn something truly blessed
The whole scene from the window, is with snow dressed