Help me, Muses, report with greater clarity
these matters of which you’ve made me the scribe.
And let me partake of that broad hilarity
that’s subsisted in dreams since the very first jibe.
For such a jest was original sin
(the curse that fell on Eve and the rest of her tribe)
that the minstrel felt compelled to put a new spin
on the tale each time it was related.
And the dreamers forever would argue who’d win
the golden palm: apple, tree, woman, or hated
serpent (though never the bard, it would seem).
And the laughter would continue unabated,
echoing out from pause to sleepful pause, between
the dual ends to which we were fated.
Ah, never to know the laws of that country, Dream!
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