On a cold, windy evening she sat drinking tea,
finals bearing down, quite tempted to flee.
Alas, she resigned and walked to the stove,
flipped on the burner, and the kettle did glow.
‘Perhaps one more pot will make life less bleak’,
she said to herself, defeated an meek.
The water was boiled, into the pot it was poured,
with thoughts of studying, a bit less abhorred.