This is a revised draft of a poem draft I'd already posted. It's unusual; I don't usually post later drafts, just earlier ones, partly because I don't usually get beyond the first. But here's a second, and for the first time. Got that? You can compare it to the original. The allusion, of course, is to The Bacchae of Euripides
The Bacchae
When the god of wine and revel
made dizzy the city's prince,
the omens darkly muttered
with a strange malevolence.
But the king kept to his folly;
he was slain by the godly bull
and carried home in his mother's arms.
Amen: the gods are cruel.
You are proud in your ways, O mortals!
Better to make oneself to mourn
than to march through mocking Theban streets
to where the beasts are torn.
You are vain with the vain cosmetics
by which you hide your soul;
you boast of your civic order,
but destruction is your goal.
You speak the name of Justice?
But Justice moves like a sword
to slit the throats of mortals
with a fate no charm can ward.
And when your life is over --
when we see the path you've trod --
we will see not boasted glory,
but the mocking of the god.
