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
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