Ulysses, that old man of war,
He was of high degree
And sailed the mighty sea
Full many times. How many times sailed he
Homer the Greek hath sung before,
And so I will not count that number o'er;
But of the man and arms I choose to sing
And not how often he did ply his oar:
'Twould be uninteresting.

He sailed upon the briny deep
And a great beard he grew
But what is that to you?
Of that wise captain of the ocean blue
I turn me now, for talk is cheap,
And lulls the reader's brain into a sleep.
Of action, blood, and arms I here have sworn
To tell, and oaths I swear I mean to keep,
For I am honest born.

On the high seas full many gods
Met stout Ulysses there,
All gods both high and rare
Who can appear right out of thinnest air;
Who hurl out bolts of lightning rods
For punishment to merely mortal clods;
Like Zeus and Plato, and that Vulcan cold
Who keeps his feelings hid and merely nods
When others laugh out bold;

And hoary Neptune with his horn
And tall Poseidon, who
Lords o'er the vasty blue;
And Mercury and Thor, the war-god, too,
Whose very names those books adorn
That are great classics now, though some still scorn
Their full tumescent spines and read those rags
Which are so full of lies, or maybe porn,
Replete with lusty shags.

Then there was Hera, who was Queen
To Zeus, whose skin was white
Like cream, who day and night
Allowed her breasts to hover in plain sight,
So large and pleasant to be seen,
And round like spheres, and covered with a sheen
Of her immortal and lactative juice,
Which we can high up in the heavens ween
In streaks of milk profuse.

No more of them, but prithee, Muse,
Let me proclaim just how
Ulysses drove his prow
Through wide salt-seas and, with perspiring brow,
He came back home and planned a ruse
To oust those men who got lascivious views
Of fair Penelope, Ulysses' wife,
Who sat alone whilst he was on his cruise
And led a boring life;

And let my fiery pen declaim
How with his bow he shot
Much straighter than that lot
Who drank his wine and shamelessly got hot
For fair Penelope, whose shame
Got so intense, they quit their suitors' game
And fled like fairies out into the street
In craven fear, who, in rude tembling lame,
Ran in their sandaled feet.

At which the bold Ulysses kissed
His comely bride and swept
Her off to whence they slept,
Whither they did not sleep but rather kept
Their wedded sheets in balmy twist
And had a very wild and wanton tryst
Whenas Ulysses rode her thighs betwixt
And held her supple and upheaving breast
Whilst their wet fluids mixed.

But, Muse, let us be shy and turn
Away and let them love,
That hero and his dove,
For whom this poem throbs in honor of;
For it were crude to see them churn,
Or hear their groans, whose gasping loins did yearn.
Nay, we will slip away and give them rest,
And simply say, though they did hotly burn,
Their love was loveliest.