In fair Verona, long ago
Lived fair Juliet and her Romeo,
Two kids who, about each other, raved
And whom better communication skills could have saved.
For in a land where alchemists
Can make you look dead if your parents are pissed
Informing your partner of your choice to partake
In such a substance is a wise choice to make,
But neh! Knowing better, the 15 year old
Pair of lovers thought the others needn’t be told.
And thus was a theatrical masterpiece born
To suffice in an era with no access to porn.
This is why I didn’t call;
I just want our love to conquer all.
“Clumps of dainty silver bones
Mixed amidst the silent stones
Are bathed not in blood or tears
But in the light of yesteryears.”
I don’t know the meaning of that verse,
If it be blessing or a curse,
But it’s tattooed on my forehead
Which is why I no longer drink before bed.
“If I were a pickled spleen
Kept in a jar for 30 years
Charged with electrical current
In a chamber full of your darkest fears,
Then released from the jar on a Sunday
And carried overseas by some birds
To attend celebrations in Istanbul
Would you still kiss me afterwards?”
The air was warm and friendly,
The sun a gentle golden light,
And the dirt was easily shoveled
Upon the corpse of the guy who passed me on the right.
I’m on a new diet
Where I stand outside
As the rain pours upon me
And softens my hide,
Where the drumbeat of storms
And the wind’s icy whip
Shall grab fat from my bones
And from my body strip.
This diet’s approved
By the Gods of the gale,
Guaranteed by the ancients
To make man out of whale.
While such primeval cures
Do at first seem too frightening
I do endorse this diet
Of Thunder and Lightening.
I worked all week,
I sweated and toiled,
I broke my back,
My plans were foiled,
My heart was shattered,
My brain turned to goo
So that, Dearest Saturday,
I could make it to you.
I slaved and I slobbered.
My displeasures grew
As I sat through lectures
I already knew,
I held off angry clients,
Protected my pen
So that we, Dearest Saturday,
Could be one once again.
Have fallen before me,
Slain so I could assure
That you would not deplore me,
And although I am thankful
To not be deplored
Why is it, Dearest Saturday,
That I’m this freakin’ bored?