To Pan the Deliverer

Hail Great God Pan, half beast and half man,
drive this pestilence back
with your dancing cloven hooves,
you who sport in the hills,
and carefully watch over our flocks
except during those couple afternoon hours
when you’re napping
or rolling around in a dark, damp cave
with some bosomy Nymph
or apple-bottomed country lad.
Any who have disturbed your slumber
or crossed your path when you’re out hunting by moonlight,
know how terrifying and merciless you can be;
what hope does this flu born of bat-munching have
of withstanding your might, O son of Hermes
and the most excellent weaver Penelope,
you who won the glory of your name
when you marched with Bakchos beyond Bactria
and slaughtered all his foes on the battlefield,
their numbers vastly outstripping all those
this uppity virus has sent coughing and choking to Hell.
(And that’s even with the government’s heavily inflated numbers!)
Oh Hornéd Deliverer, wielder of the net and crook,
with eyes of fire and a laugh that chills,
when you walk among the districts Pan,
this epidemic will tuck tail and run
back across the far sea where it came from,
never to trouble our fair shores or doughty people again.

2 thoughts on “To Pan the Deliverer

  1. Hail to Pan, beloved son of Hermes and Penelope! May You always be praised great God! Io Pan!

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