41330

"You may now begin with Section I."

The chainsaws hack away at the quiet roots, and the pencils are raised.
With a swift loop in the air, they come crashing down against the grizzly cold scantron sheet.
The very foundations of the English alphabet are scribed first to signify the authority of
you.

Without haste, the battlefield is torn by bullets;

Men screaming to the top of their lungs, which are no more;
A gruesome combat, where the winner shall stand,
as you play the divine, weighing pros and cons.
Answer A or Answer B.
Democratic or Republican.
Ionic or Covalent.
Derivative or Integral.
Life or Death.

With the strands of time in your hands and that mechanical pencil as thy glorious prophet,
The destiny of faith and mankind rest upon those small filthy hands,
coated with notes frantically written from the night before,
smudged by the nightmare-filled "sleep", and no more your valiant aid.

Sequences upon sequences, the mind works in patterns,

as the rhythm of your pounding heart and a moaning stomach race the tiny cerebral impulses.
The dark markings make a picture, suddenly the paper smiles back with menace.

Looks like number #42 wasn't B. Erase that.

Take the mighty red rubber of correction and clean the slate, forget the mistake,
Wash the blood off the rusty blade.
Draw your weapon and glimpse at the reflection.
Confidence. The pencil is ready for more. Only 25 more battles to fight, and the war be won.

Furiously you jot down the responses, peering left and right.
Those sinful eyes become shifty and weary,
Tempted by the devils of success,
... and a small peak left. #63 was actually E.

Look back at the Father, whose patience has run dry. This pointless bloodshed for what cause?
Nearing the end, crying on your knees, looking upon fallen comrades,
Holding the severed heads of #74, there's nothing you can do.
But now you recall! That sacred martial style learned in your youth!
Now is the time to invoke salvation! Seize the opportunity! Unleash your inner messiah!
Yes, the holy art of BS, referred to only with two letters,
But its power is so much more.
Quickly you grab your weapon and attack headfirst, moseying around in the murky waters,
Flossing the teeth of a cold-hearted shark. Only two yards away from the finish line,
You feel the breeze rolling down your cool face as you c-

"Stop. Put down your pencils. You are now finished with Section I."
Aswin Sivaraman

"You may now begin with Section I."

The chainsaws hack away at the quiet roots, and the pencils are raised.
With a swift loop in the air, they come crashing down against the grizzly cold scantron sheet.
The very foundations of the English alphabet are scribed first to signify the authority of
you.

Without haste, the battlefield is torn by bullets;

Men screaming to the top of their lungs, which are no more;
A gruesome combat, where the winner shall stand,
as you play the divine, weighing pros and cons.
Answer A or Answer B.
Democratic or Republican.
Ionic or Covalent.
Derivative or Integral.
Life or Death.

With the strands of time in your hands and that mechanical pencil as thy glorious prophet,
The destiny of faith and mankind rest upon those small filthy hands,
coated with notes frantically written from the night before,
smudged by the nightmare-filled "sleep", and no more your valiant aid.

Sequences upon sequences, the mind works in patterns,

as the rhythm of your pounding heart and a moaning stomach race the tiny cerebral impulses.
The dark markings make a picture, suddenly the paper smiles back with menace.

Looks like number #42 wasn't B. Erase that.

Take the mighty red rubber of correction and clean the slate, forget the mistake,
Wash the blood off the rusty blade.
Draw your weapon and glimpse at the reflection.
Confidence. The pencil is ready for more. Only 25 more battles to fight, and the war be won.

Furiously you jot down the responses, peering left and right.
Those sinful eyes become shifty and weary,
Tempted by the devils of success,
... and a small peak left. #63 was actually E.

Look back at the Father, whose patience has run dry. This pointless bloodshed for what cause?
Nearing the end, crying on your knees, looking upon fallen comrades,
Holding the severed heads of #74, there's nothing you can do.
But now you recall! That sacred martial style learned in your youth!
Now is the time to invoke salvation! Seize the opportunity! Unleash your inner messiah!
Yes, the holy art of BS, referred to only with two letters,
But its power is so much more.
Quickly you grab your weapon and attack headfirst, moseying around in the murky waters,
Flossing the teeth of a cold-hearted shark. Only two yards away from the finish line,
You feel the breeze rolling down your cool face as you c-

"Stop. Put down your pencils. You are now finished with Section I."