Strikethrough Poem by Foster Teegarden

A list of names sits before me
with matching photos to my side.
I press on in futility
just to regain some kind of pride.

At this time I have to peruse
through some of my school's true beauties,
all of which I tend to strike-through,
because none can answer my pleas.

I'm looking for an eleven,
a true as blue-eyed blonde bombshell,
on a scale that goes up to ten.
This fact always sends me to hell.

I'll probably get a degree
and then land myself a great job
but soon hang myself by a tree,
as I couldn't hold one more sob.

But, for now, I have my laptop
with nothing but names in my sight.
Hopefully I won't need a mop
for the droplets I'll shed tonight.