‘I took your wife’ said Hell, ‘because she died.
She died because she fled the Satyr. Chaste
and faithful to your bed. I find the taste
of faithful wives the same as those who lied
when I swallow them down. For all things fall
into my mouth. A few things I will take
-my wife for instance – just for whimsy sake.
I am not fair or comforting at all
I simply am. I don’t insult the dead
by softening the brutal facts. Things end.
I’m there to take them, not to be their friend
Only deluded fools are comforted.
And poets. ‘ Orpheus smiled, strummed, sang aloud.
He’d often done well with a tougher crowd.