He is short
And wears spectacles
His cheeks are always red
And his life is only about the text.
He is sincere
And he is fine
That is why I find him
Always standing in the library line.
He never misses classes
He writes word by word
His notebooks are filled
Even his pens seem to hurt.
He never stares at girls
Is too shy to look at them.
Attends even Pinter’s classes
Even though he has opted for Eliot.
But whatever he is
No matter how much he might blush
He seems like a genuinely cute guy
In our stupid old ragged class.
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