As I got out of my history room,
I started to formulate my last words for
My death that would take place at 204.
I walked into inevitable doom,

And here I was seated, and I assume,
Lunch is torture, torment and nothing more,
Stinky beef, stuffed chicken, and some dead boar.
The trays arrived, I imagined my tomb,

I had consumed something deadly toxic.
I looked at the clock: seven minutes late,
At my dish, there’s still something exotic.

I threw my broccolis to my friend’s plate,
And saw some lovely fish, very aquatic.
Then I exclaimed, “Where’s my fish for God’s sake?”