Mercurial Mercutio sits down,
His periodic table piled
With goods. The psalms and protocols
Have been concluded, vast
Salad bars looted, even the grill
Of his dreams expired, scrubbed and lapsed
Into the arms of sticky buns.
Ice cream, he says, and asks for more.
Nothing forthcoming. What if this
Is sold as is, a scruffy tail,
The end of plot and narrative—
Just some of this and a bit of that,
A chapel stew, a pot of mess,
And love a scant gratuity?
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