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.
“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 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?
Sometimes I take a bath
To ease the stress of taxation.
I fill the tub with herbs
Such as thyme for relaxation.
When arguing online you do
Your foe may fail to convince you,
May reject logic, spew rhetoric,
And end up looking pathetic,
May cite false studies, make up a fact,
Surrender any façade of tact,
May display no virtue and every sin,
But alas, my friend, you still won’t win.
Don’t want to marry just some girl.
I’m looking for a wholesome girl.
A girl whose lack of cleavage
Warms my big platonic heart.
A girl who thinks that working’s
Not synonymous with twerking.
A girl who skips the bar
Because she wants to look at art.
I want to find a happy lass
Who doesn’t want to shake her ass,
Who goes to church on Sundays
And buys ice cream from a truck,
Who’s pure and chaste and sweet
And, instead of “lit,” says “neat.”
But I also want Beyonce,
So I’m feeling kinda stuck…