Anyone would know of Oedipus's fate or Medea's grief,
But our play isn't fair told,
Of ardent love and enthusiastic script reading down by the riverside's muddy banks,
More than the mere characters written down and thread  sewn into costumes,
We wept of tragedies and sang of comedies,
How did I not foresee this classic catastrophe!
I passionately loved that budding boy in his evening dress with all my heart,
So sure was I that he was completely mutual!
But deep in his breast, a polarized hunger writhed,
He kissed me as sweet as the near flourishing plum trees,
Before the Moon witnessed him slump to chafed knees in prayers,
Stripped bare to the sheer undergarments in the chilled windy night,
Chains were buckled to weights and clasped around his ankles,
He pitched himself in the frigid raucous waters with no bubbling scream of regret,
And soon washed ashore bloated blue and bruised purple,
Wail I did like the haunting banshees of Ireland!
No kiss would suffice to bring back his dissolved spirit,
When the mortician pumped his chest, a flow of diseased water gushed forth,
A brush of hand on a face that will no longer alight,
A turn of head shading the constant acidic tears,
A flash of white law before being torn to shreds in fits,
To leave smoothed stones and ribboned anemone once his body was removed.