A Poem for the Professor Who Gave You a B

We did it! We survived the semester. Now that finals are coming to an end, ’tis the season to pester your professors to give you that A you so clearly deserve. In the metaphysical spirit of John Donne, here’s a plea you can send if you’ve ended up with a *gasp* B.

The B: Donne with the Semester

Mark but this “B,” and mark in this,   
How little that which thou deniest me is;   
It stung me first, and now stings thee,
And in this “B” my midterms mingled be;   
Thou know’st that this cannot just stay
A sin, nor shame, nor sink of GPA,\
	Yet this enjoys before it woo,
	Group projects swell with one blood made of two,
	And this, alas, is more than I could do.
Oh stay, three points from an “A” spare,
Where we almost, nay more than passing are.   
This “B” is you and I, and this
Our Canvas posts, and Canvas messages;   
Though TAs grudge, and you, w'are doomed,   
And cloistered in these living walls of Zoom.
	Though use make you apt to fail me,
	Let not to that, self-murder added be,
	And sacrilege, three sins in failing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Lowered my grade, in blood of innocence?   
Wherein could this “B” guilty be,
Except in the time which it sucked from me?   
Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou   
Find’st not tenure, nor me the weaker now;
    ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:
	Just so much honor, when thou gave a C,
	Will waste, as this B’s death took life from thee.

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