More Femme Fatale-ities Than You Can Shake a Speare At

There once was a girl, Juliet,
Whom a fellow named Romeo met;
              She could not be his wife,
              So she fell on a knife…
Which she hasn’t recovered from yet.

Then, too, there was Lady Macbeth:
Preoccupied so much with death,
              She scrubbed with a sud
              That would not take out blood,
While muttering under her breath.

And then there was Gertrude, Queen Mother,
Who married her dead husband’s brother;
              Hamlet’s poison she drank,
              And, as dying she sank,
She cried, “No, no, the—” something-or-other.

They all died so sad in the end:
Void of husband, of son, or of friend.
              Not like a guy, who would say,
              “Et tu—well played, Bruté!”
Knowing it’s only pretend.

                                            —Avon A. Mouse