There's something to be said
for the will of a male
when all odds are set against him,
when all life simply seems to derail.
Honor and glory,
Tales and songs,
A history of his battle
traversed through its throngs.
This is but what he wants:
A history remembered
for its joys and not its wrongs.
Odysseus traveled to the ends of Greece,
battling the Cyclops, the Sirens, and the Scylla,
but as epic as even his journey is,
it pales to this one lone hurrah.
The day had come
for this male to stand,
to deliver the final hammer stroke,
to elicit his one command.
Ares, god of war, had no recourse,
no protection from the pain,
felling the onslaught firsthand.
Zeus, god of the sky,
and also the House,
declared once and for all
that his rule would not be doused.
Seeing his couch dominated
by the taunt and lean pup,
Zeus leaped into the air,
his paws in a windup.
He hissed and spat,
making it clear
Ares would receive quite the wallop.
From that day forth,
Ares would no longer lay
on Zeus' pristine throne,
much to the god of war's dismay.
Though Ares would try,
sneaking onto its cushions now and then,
Zeus had made it clear
that Ares would never again
sit on top of the couch,
lay on the covers,
for that was his hallowed place of zen.
