Last night we had to say farewell to The Real Housewives of Atlanta until they come back for another season of sass talking and wig pulling. We were incredibly sad. There is only one way to express our melancholy: poetry.

Last night's season finale did not disappoint, even though the big showdown between NeNe and her rival Kim happened off camera. We can only imagine the implications. Before the reunion show next week, we only have this elegy to make it through the hard times.

Ding is the Sound of Your Death Knell, NeNe Leakes, NeNe Leakes


And your friends shall stand, side-by-side,
surveying the land of their downgrade. Where
to put the pool? Where to put the guest
house? Where to craft a path, now that you are gone?

There will be weddings in all the aquariums in the world,
joined under the sea in the sucking maw of the rawfish.
Death comes for the groom but happiness
swaddles them, like golden seat covers

Like a mother's forgiveness, like debt,
like the darkened days of sadness after a halcyon triumph.
Death comes for the bride like moose fingers
in the face. Slap it away, and it will only rebound

Back, and stronger, all its sibling digits joined together
closing around the throat, shaking the head
like passengers in a train, their wigs atumble,
hair pieces flared out at the base but cinched

By a pony tail. Horse hair, cow's tail, a heifer
with its wig on too tight gnaws on the grass, cudding
the trimmings in its mouth. And the sight brings nothing
but pain

Deep fatherless pain. The guardian to hell stands backstage
to welcome you, with his tie closed tight, the knot as big
as two babies fists trapped in bondage and his nose
sharp like a green eraser top popped on a pencil

Points down toward the glimmer of his shirt. We bends as he walks,
like bamboo in a typhoon and barks out orders
culling the only beauty from this horrid plain
marching it down a narrow path. Forge the narrow

path, beauties, in your slip-shod draperies, bountiful bangles
purple asymmetrical tops bulbous around the arms.
Come marching with your tribal necklaces your
Warrior arms sheathed in jewels.

You are She by Sheree, your name sibilant
like the shush of the surf, and your champion
glowers across the catwalk at her foe, drink in hand,
never tardy, and never a party of defeat.

[Video by Mike Byhoff]