Narcissus was a handsome lad.
In poet’s cloak was cutely clad.
A golden child with golden chatter,
with charm and cheek, the girls he’d flatter.
He loved his mam; he loved his gran.
He loved the gods, apart from Pan.
But more than all these charming creatures,
he loved his own fair, faultless features.
What made Narcissus swell with pride,
like King Canute who turned the tide?
A glimpse into the lake one morning,
when sweet Aurora’s Day was dawning
sufficed; it fired his first love’s passion,
for fairest face, that lake did fashion.
This gorgeous, godlike thing did ravish
his heart, with all its love he’d lavish
upon himself, that noble brow,
as holy as a sacred cow!
The centre of all universes,
his tale they’d tell, for years, in verses!
But gods despised this boy, so vain.
(This pompous pratt was such a pain!)
And Venus said, “it’s in our power.
Let’s turn him to a fragile flower!”