Goddess of song, teach me the story of a hero.

For I am yearning to visit the limits of the all-nurturing Earth, and Oceans, from whom the gods are sprung.

I'm like that guy who single-handedly built the rocket and flew to the moon. What was his name? Apollo Creed?

Oh, my tattered rags are caught on your coffee table.

How delicate her feet who shuns the ground, Stepping a-tiptoe on the heads of men.

Which would you rather be, a conqueror in the Olympic games, or the crier that proclaims who are conquerors?

Do not beg me by knees or by parents you dog! I only wish I were savagely wrathful enough to hack up your corpse and eat it raw