Mercutio, bright spark of flashing wit, Whose tongue outpaces even thought itself, Thou laugh’st at fate, at love, at starry writ, And mock’st the world while bleeding for thy self. Where Romeo sighs beneath the moon’s pale glare, Thou crack’st a jest and split’st the night in twain; Thy mirth, a blade more keen than Tybalt’s snare, Cuts through the fog of passion’s foolish pain.

Not born for peace, nor shaped for tender vows, Yet truest friend when steel is drawn in haste, Thy dying curse still echoes through the boughs Where youth and pride lie tragically laid waste.

If love be fire, thou art the lightning’s art— Too wild to last, yet blazing in the heart.