Lollygagging on Olympus
The gods are idle all day long like pale
Silk hanging from a sultan’s wrist while gone
On holiday and drowsing with a veil
Around his satin bed. Supine they yawn
By banquet tables weighted down with wine,
Ambrosia and grapes. They laze about
On couches. Gilt trimmed dozing is their shrine.
As ineluctable as snore and pout
Must be in bored Olympus. Haughtiness
And impudence must also reign supreme.
To these divinities it’s naughtiness,
Not much more, relishing a human scream.
They watch as in a weary dream. They wile
Away their hours and barely scrape a smile.