An Indictment

Written by my dearest sister, Therese Marie, to yours truly.

In years past you were always my very best friend
I never thought this time would come to an end
Yet I write you now saying one final adieu;
Le memoire de toi je va jette dans le feu.

Why is this, oh why? You may mournfully ask.
Even worse, then, you might try to take me to task:
"To banish a friend? What disloyalty!"
When I give you the cause you most surely will see

That a friendship like ours, certes, never could last
Too often our good times stay stuck in the past;
That time in the tree we climbed high to avoid
Joey's rage which caused him to throw stones like Pink Floyd

(No really? You ask, turning over with mirth,
Such a rhyme, such a frame, such a relative dearth
of the ever so clever ways generally found
to banish bad poetry's "talking around")

In fact though, the reason I haven't yet stated.
It seems, be it known, that our ways are quite fated;
With you going east as I travel west--
I imagine you'll revel at Octoberfest--

Which, remember, is one thing I never have seen,
Drunken Germans, that is, lumbering on the green
While sober (or semi) UDers complain
Of pedestrian, bad tasting beers back in Spain

Or superior wines that they relished in France
And of Europe's so eerie extinction of ants
And other small creatures that could be called pests;
Well, really, Americans, it's for the best--

The ravages of a strange thing called the plague
Are the sort of thing tourists will want to have vague
Assurances given them about the rarity,
Of this, even if promises are at var-ity

With the truth (like the word which I just
have invented). In any case Must
is a word that's intended to give
you a sense of how you should live.

At least while in Texas then, I will command
That you heed to my every whim and demand.
You MUST see the Pope five more times at the least
And ask him questions on the oft-rumored beast

And whether the world is in danger of drought
Or if there's a way to avoid old-age gout.
And after the Pope, there's Apollo to see;
He'll be waiting for you on the slopes at Delphi.

Climb the mountain, consult him, implore him for me,
Ask him whether Dallas might some day be the sea
And Irving, dear Irving, under the hot sun
May be on the shore of a new Caspian.

Now that would be awesome. Nay, do not ye think?
It might even be made of water fresh to drink
And lovely to swim in, besides being quite
Apocalyptic, because we're in the right

To critique all these warehouses' ugly facades
Because, after all, we are the new demi-gods
Of a civilization that's losing its head
While we, the UDers stay calm and well-fed

On Plato and Dante at least, if not food,
Our minds divinized as we grow much more shrewd
Than anyone else in this desolate place...
(What, are we pretentious? How to regain face?)

I'll stop all that there, that generic UD-talk
And return to the reason we might have to balk
At maintaining a friendship of such long histoire
And inform you that soon enough tu iras voir

Pourquoi nous avons la raison de nous rompre.
It's simply the case that this place is too somber.
No partying here from the dusk to the dawn
Which is what used to happen when you remained on

The campus, at our place, oft cooking us food,
Which without you, I'll say, is hardly as good.
The disloyal preference of Rome over us
Is not an issue over which I'll much fuss

A simple indictment of your grievous wrong
Is the message behind this most genial song,
Your time will be neat in the old continent
But when you return you will have to consent

To being less privileged than you one time were;
Say sharing a room with two others--infer
That you won't have the couch to yourself as your lot.
Other people have taken that coveted spot.

Tell stories, write letters, send emails in vain;
You will never assuage the e'er deepening pain
That your heartless abandonment caused in our hearts.
So just be aware when returned to these parts

That Chelsea, Meg, Mary, and Kaitlyn and I,
Whenever we think of you, weep and then sigh
For our so sorry lots on this weary old earth
Where your absence in Rome means an absence of mirth.

I hope the Italians know how to laugh
At last, for your jokes so invariably daft,
Should amuse them should you put on common parlance
And perhaps the Fall Romers will learn how to dance...

My speculations could unfold at great length
But now is the moment to summon my strength
And tear myself from this long letter to you;
And here, Mary Brigid, I bid you adieu.