On the way to hell, there is a railroad line; it don't matter where or when, or what the girl looks like, or who the boy is, or even whether it is a girl and a boy or a boy and a boy or a girl and a girl -- the point is, there's young love a-foot and in it lies the road to paradise and likewise, the road to ruin.

One of the two lovers will look at the other from across those tracks, one with love and longing in their heart and their hat in their hands, and the other will blossom under this first one's touch, even if its such a star-crossed fate that even the gods above and below are shakin' their heads at the lack of sense in these two.

The problem, kids, is when the gods find a story they like, they play it over and over again; there's a reason I ain't never been married, and it's due to this play that I watch, again and again: two young lovers, crossing the tracks, oblivious of the oncoming train of fate, barreling toward them -- for lovers, ain't nothing the Fates like more than a tragedy.