As foolish and uncalled for as it is,

I wrote this verse with you and me in mind.

So run away with me; get in the car.

My note of explanation has been signed.

There’s kismet, but if you have bigger plans

I’ll drop the world and follow after you.

Or we’ll fly south and work on killer tans–

whatever we decide we want to do.

I’m stupid, ’cause you’re not even in love.

We kissed–so what? You’d rather not recall.

The both of us could use a loving shove,

a body in the pit to break our fall.

You’ll find the guy who’s perfect just for you,

and him… I hope he’ll write you sonnets, too.

Although I find the climax rather droll,

’tis not a farce to love in honest zeal.

A breath of passion gives an act its soul.

The props are faux, but are the players real?

She wears a paper blossom in her hair.

He threatens off the monsters with a sword

of wood–fights dragons–for the maiden fair.

The plot is old, but few are ever bored.

He slays the beasts and wins her gentle hand,

(the drums and trumpets sound an underscore)

and fairness reigns throughout the verdured land.

I doubt that most would ever ask for more.

The Bard would give us pause. He’d rather show

the tale of Juliet and Romeo.