Tale from Ovid
You might be handsome, true or smart,
Or pretty, wise and plucky,
Good at sport and games or art,
Or talented and lucky,
But every mortal ends up dead,
The gods have fixed the odds,
So if you want to die in bed
Don’t fuck around with gods.
For wealth’s a turn-on, so they say,
And when they’re in the mood
The powerful get their end way,
The rest of us get screwed.
From sun-burnt Semele till now
The world’s been run by ogres,
Who like old Zeus just don’t know how
To keep it in their togas.
Though those who live on heaven’s summit
Like a bit of clay,
Olympians who like to slum it,
Don’t expect to pay.
Like daytime-soaps and royalty,
Your average randy god
Shows mortals little loyalty
Once he has shot his wad,
And turns the woman he’s just laid
Into a tree or flower,
To show the world that she’s just paid
The price of fucking power.
Don’t listen to their lies, my friend,
Their promises and tricks,
For if you do you know you’ll end
Up face down in the Styx,
Or torn apart by hunting packs
Of TV journalists,
Pursued around the world by fax,
And stone-eyed columnists.
For even gods must make excuses
(Hera’s such a bitch),
The moral if you mess with Zeus is:
Don’t fuck with the rich.
So let’s enjoy it, while we can,
Allow a little chortle,
As through the heavens falls a man
Who thought he was immortal,
Who thought he only had to smile
And look a bit sincere
And hang around with Ares while
He wiped away a tear,
Who almost lost his god-like crown,
Turned by his misdemeanours
Into a spunk-stain on a gown
And taken to the cleaners.
An image of the age perhaps,
To end this Age of Brass,
When no more would-be god-like chaps
Shall fuck the working-class,
And whether you are true or smart,
Or pretty, wise and plucky,
Good at sport and games or art,
Or talented and lucky,
We will no longer watch the skies
Or fear the patterned stars,
But see the world through mortal eyes
And know at last it’s ours.
Page(s) 17-19
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