Classic Poem

Aphrodite, pale with weeping,
Will not hearken to our call,
Zeus is either dead or sleeping,
Homer nods (as usual!)
Deep among the Asphodel
Hera is asleep as well,
And they heed us not at all.

From his sacred shrine in Delos
Doth Apollo speak no more,
Or his oracles might tell us
Things we never heard before.
Ototoi, Olympians!
Ye are fallen from your thrones
As the old Greek cried of yore.

Shall your poet's cries not ruffle
Your divine tranquillity,
Though the rhymes are simply awful,
And the meaning's all my eye?
Bacchus shakes his heavy head
(He is drunk as well as dead!
And none other makes reply.