The dire Soprano is bereft
and we, her audience, grimace
to see her tragic, painted face,
as she bemoans the fact he’s left,
that slippery Lothario
whose name, I think, was Mario.
She’s suicidal now he’s gone.
He wronged her early in Scene Two
and left her three weeks overdue.
Oh Lord this drama does drag on,
with histrionic shrieks and sighs,
till her theatrical demise.
We fidget in our pricey seats,
call on our communal resolves
while, slow, the hackneyed tale evolves.
We grind our teeth and suck boiled sweets
Oh haste the bitter end, we pray,
and thus we wish our lives away.