Poor Romeo, his spelling was a matter of concern,
An Oscar for his writing was a prize he’d never earn,
And when he wrote ‘Dear Juliett’ his letter she’d return
Explaining Juliet had just one ‘t’.
‘My spelling isn’t uniform,’ he answered, ‘yet it’s true
I’d learn to foxtrot, tango or do anything for you
Apart from learning how to spell, for that I cannot do,
A decent speller I shall never be.
Alas, I know your papa and your kith and kin as well
Would rather I were in Quebec, or India, or Hell,
And yet this proper Charlie who will never learn to spell
On bended knee begs, come and live with me!’
The cry, ‘Bravo’, will echo down the ages for these two,
Each of them a victor who, while living, never knew
Their alpha to their omega would speedily ensue,
When joined in death will live eternally.
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