Myth Is History

A querulous old man with followers
Who ruled as tyrants found the poison cup
Pressed to his lips to silence all the burrs
That tripped off of his tongue. He was served up

To please Apollo, who he had denied.
His ugly face and ugly words could die
From eyes and ears at last. The asshole died
A hated man -- that, no one could deny.

In wondrous words and images, a sage
Arose, reborn a winged soul of light
That shines through plane tree leaves as poetry.

Thus, time and word play have revised their rage
Onto the people who would never write
Their myth and sing their song of history.