Lynn Roberts: The goddess Hera Commiserates with Mrs Tiger Woods



What do you do when your husband’s a god
and he can’t keep his glory wrapped up?
Do you sit down and cry? do you turn a blind eye
to the demiurge urges to tup?

What do you do when your husband’s a god
and he keeps sneaking out on the prowl? -
prowling hither and yon disguised as a swan
and as various species of fowl?

What do you do when your husband’s a god
with all the cute girls in his hand?
When, changed to a bull, he is pulling the wool
over every man’s eye in the land?

What do you do when your husband’s a god
who cavorts in Niagaras of gold?
It’s no manner of use with immortals like Zeus
to attempt to reclaim them, I’m told.

So here’s what I do (as my husband’s a god,
and he can’t keep his glory in check):
I’ve got an agenda of suitable men t’
invite on a bender; the young and the slender
who’d like to befriend a deity; tender,
not scared of her splendour; who’d like to attend her –
perhaps to defend her (respecting her gender) . . .

. . . but basically wanting to neck.