Fret not, darlings, I didn't turn in that wonder of a poem that I posted about To Kill a Mockingbird. I can't stoop that low. I did, however, write some interestin slam in 10 minutes before the project was due:

White, and exultantly clean, ready to fly.
So pure, so undeserving of this serving, not wanting to die.
The crime you didn’t commit, sublime, and ready to hit
It haunts because you are different
And lacking of adornment
Before they see the core, they abhor you for I adore you
And because you threaten them,
Your reverence condemns all them,
Your numbers then panic them,
And threatens to deprive all them
Of this unrighteous power in an hour
Too dark to truly see through,
This vagueness washes through you,
Hitting and beating, scathing your life and your soul
As the shadows drip and slide out of control.
And you don’t see why you are not allotted
The time and right and the claim to be plotted
On this land in which you were born and raised,
Beaten and hazed,
Driven to craze,
But never then phased.
How could they blindly, wildly, snidely
engrave this anguish upon you
just because you long to
live and breathe and see, and perhaps ultimately
take wing to the sky, and finally fly.
Their unchecked power and force
Will lead to an end of all they endorse.
It is their ignorance, their pride,
For that is the locking word
Who could ever bear to survive,
they who kill a mockingbird.