It's the Race.
Committing and involving for a pace;
Far and stressful, but only to the finish we gazed.
Continuously we learnt through the length and distance, with much zeal and devotion.
Every journey had its on challenges.
First year was fresh and as men we staggered through like a toddler.
Like religious monks we loved what we couldn't see, learnt what will shape us and followed instructions religiously.
As sophomores we were opened to more realities and tensions, lesser weapons of academic assault, we would be given fewer books and expected of us were higher performance.
Other years came with its style of challenge, involving and drilling.
Like soldiers, fighting for knowledge we recorded deserters but every story has its heroes.
The devoted ones would stay glued to their guide a code of academic conduct.
At the final lap of the battle of excellence, the tension was minimal, the style of engagement was learnt, time management was now a habit but academic recklessness was born.
We Would learn from the mistakes of our elders reported annually in reports from our Chief instructor, the examiner, one we mysteriously nicknamed the 'Prefect'.
We stayed strong, fighting for that trophy.
yes we won.
Now we are not locals we are world class.
A poem dedicated to the University of London
