Hera, girl, here’s what I think – we should go and have a drink.
Once again, by Fate’s fell plan, we’ve been sodomized by man.
How did we accept this con? – standing here with nothing on,
whilst a shepherd boy debates which of us he really rates.
Queen of heaven, Wisdom’s ark – but completely in the dark,
even thinking we’ve a chance against Aphrodite’s glance.
I have never felt so daft – up a creek without a raft –
while Paris, with his arms akimbo, leers at that immortal bimbo.
How could he have passed you over? − bride of Zeus and supernova –
seeing rosy Dawn define every (very queenly) line?
As for me, I’d dumped my glasses, bathed myself in milk of asses
(though I know my curves are meagre, men have always seemed quite eager).
But – with fanfare and kerfuffle (calculated most to ruffle
every feeling of her peers) – Aphrodite then appears,
trailing doves and paparazzi, Paris as her willing patsy;
wearing nothing but a smile, unadorned but cloaked in guile.
Though her lips would not melt butter, I have heard a sneaky mutter
intimating that she wrought him round her little finger; bought him
with the bride of Menelaus, thus precipitating chaos:
years of war by rival forces, Grecian fire and Trojan horses.
Once again, by Fate’s fell plan, lust has left us in the can.
Hera, girl, here’s what I think: we should go and have a
or perhaps two . . .
or even three . . .