Like Marsyas earnest on his flute
I do as as I am able
The kids have toys with which to play
And food hot on the table.
Your man Apollo need not try,
His lyre idle lying
For you decided who has won
Without him ever trying.
And I am doomed whatever song
Is mastered by my playing
And happens then I must endure
His smugness and my flaying.
Some with greater grace might judge
My love a decent staple
But you have judged as I’d expect
A goddess less than stable.