Run to your Mammy, Mammy’s boy,
Pallas Athena’s lickle pet,
forever whinging, hard done by—
Telemachus, get over it.
You’ve seen the vultures. You can read.
The writing’s on the wall for us
‘bumpkins,’ whose ‘orgiastic’ greed
‘dishonours’—pompous prig—your house,
when all we did was hang out, play
up to the lady’s ruttish tricks,
for she—whatever the Gods say—
loves cock, especially country hicks’
cock half her age, to take in hand
and show the ropes to. So, please, give
‘poor me’ a rest, why don’t you, and
admit there’s not a man alive
in Ithaca who wouldn’t slit
his Mum’s throat to give yours a squeeze
as we have done? And if the shit
is heading fan-wise, soon to ease
out of a clenched mist your vengeful
Papa, so what? Heaven can’t beat
a love-starved woman’s love, nor Hell
burn hotter than a bitch in heat.