Imagine, man, at this time
yesterday, I was out on the boat.
Cruised by Lesbos—close,
yeah, squinting distance.
I’m only here because the wife is into theater.
I say if Bacchus is the god
of parties, party on,
but if a man has got to slog through six epodes
with leper Oedipus,
then watch a chorus line
of satyrs swing their phalloi, hell,

I wish my daddy had exposed me on a Theban hillside.
If Bacchus is the god of booze
somebody should have told that buzzkill Aeschylus
the polis votes for ouzo
over Orestes any day.
The ladies love religion, I can tell you that.
No choral snooze is long enough
to deaden the nerve.
Down there Electra filibusters fate, up here
we’re chained to the galley bench.

I swear, man, every ode’s a marathon.
Meanwhile the missus blows
her pretty little nose
cathartically into my chiton.
Look there, they’ve got their snacks, they’re headed back.
The show is starting. First of three.
Why oh why is everything a trilogy?
We’ll all be old men by the time
our tragic hero wheezes into Colonus.
With festivals like these
who needs a funeral?