A wreath of blood red roses,
atop your lifeless form.
Everyone makes "tragic" poses,
as is the prescribed norm.

The funeral rites are over,
all "mourners" go their ways.
Whilst I, your broken lover,
am left with lonely days.

A year ago you walked the aisle,
and thus became my wife.
I kissed your luscious lips awhile,
and promised you my life.

Last night at home, I shot you dead,
For cheatin' out on me.
You let that scumbag share your bed,
for a paltry fee.

Is true love just a passing phase, 
or is it a fact of life?
Maybe it's just a childish craze,
and a source of ceaseless strife.

CHUCK SHORTER