The Romeo Poem

There’s a place down by Buckeystown where the Monocacy Scenic River bends out to the east. It’s a bucolic environ where majestic Blue Herons and smaller noble birds perch on jutting logs as wind from the rushing water combs through their feathers. It’s the sort of place that lovers might converge for a tryst or two. And thoughts of Romeo and Juliet’s passions spring to mind as well as the beauty of their innocence. Their words echoing off the river banks and their smiles mirrored in the clouds. It’s a place that has inspired me to share the following with you.

It’s called…  Romeo, why’d you have to fucking kill yourself?

Fuuuuuuuuck, Romeo.

Why’d you have to fucking kill yourself?

I mean, the experience of a love so great should conquer any pain. Even when it really fucking hurts.

Romeo, Romeo, why for art thou such a putz, oh Romeo?

You’d think that such a lover would at least sleep next to his dead bride one last time before falling on his own knife. You would have woken to her kisses, you pucking futz.

Of course if we looked for fault, we could blame that damn messenger the friar sent who would never get a job working for Federal Express. I mean, inadvertently causing the death of star-crossed lovers is not something you want on your résumé. No, he didn’t get it there when it absolutely, positively had to fucking be there. But he didn't kill himself over it, now did he?

In truth, Romeo, it was your hand that plunged the knife, so to speak. We all know it was Kevorkian, the apothecary’s potion that stilled you. But it was the pain of your imagined loss that you could not live with. Not all such stories end this way, so why did you run, young Romeo? Had you the wherewithal to experience the pain that your love signed you up for, your reward would have been mine.

I’ll tell you who had balls enough to survive his own pain… Edward Scissorhands.

Edward Scissorhands didn’t kill himself when he realized that he’d have to live out his days without the love of his life. Edward had balls, and perhaps a bit of a martyr complex, but that’s beside the point. He didn’t puss out and fall on his fucking hands.

Next time, have some guts of your own, Romeo. Have some fucking guts of your own.

-Dag, November 2000