Word Thingys: Salome Strangelove
He broke her heart on New Years Eve; his selfish mind could not conceive
The wounds she’d be reminded of with every Auld Lang Syne
I listened nightly on the line; she mourned a romance lost in time
I begged her once and twice again to let him go
He wasn’t worth the tears or the Merlot
But love is stubborn and often more when unrequiting
So she held on and nursed that pain more through the spiting
Out with the old, in with the new, a toss of rice, a borrowed shoe
There entered soon an ingenue not half his age
The invitation reads they’ll exchange vows by the sunset
All I can say, friends, is I wouldn’t take that bet
‘Cause I’ve got a full tank in the Kia, ‘n a cooler full of peach sangria
And the beach sounds like a mighty fine idea
Navigation tells me I’ll arrive with time to spare
Oh, they say beware a woman scorned, a story written far too often
Yeah, we all know who’s more likely to end up cross-armed in a coffin
Still, I can feel what’s brewing; I’ve watched her simmer-stewing
Planning something to reap interest on the dark note’s been accruing
So if it must be him or her I’ll speed the ride, I’ll chase the tide
And when I get there I not aiming for the bride
This is a best friend’s murder ballad — uncommon, to be sure
You were probably expecting routine death by paramour
We’ve all seen that, sung that, one too many times
I’m not here to make excuses for my crimes
Two birds, one stone, I’ll hit and run
Vengeance first, but also some prevention
Save the bride her future regrets
Finally let my friend forget
…Oh, look, sunset…
My invitation? …it’s right here
Oh, what a lovely boutonnière…
Just one sip of pink champagne, one little bite of Waldorf salad
This is a best friend’s murder ballad
Uncommon, to be sure
You were probably expecting routine death by paramour
But we’ve all seen that, sung that, one too many times
Oh, I’m not here to make excuses for my crimes
Since it must be him or her I’ll speed the ride, I’ll chase the tide
And now I’m here I won’t be aiming for the bride
This is a best friend’s murder ballad — uncommon, to be sure
You were probably expecting routine death by paramour
We’ve all seen that, sung that, one too many times
I’m not here to make excuses for my crimes
Yes, we’ve all seen that, sung that, one too many times
But I’m not here to make excuses for my crimes