Marsyas and Apollo

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.