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times I stormed and shinnied, took oar to my navigator,
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lost sight of Nestor,
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thundered and lightninged through poseidon's finny fief.
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When next I came to season, I stood a night slyly by while she
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dusk-to-dawned it, then saluted with this challenge her
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opening eyes: "Man born of woman is imperfect.
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On the three thousand two hundred eighty-seventh night of
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your Parisian affair, as I lay in Simois-mud picking
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vermin off the wound I got that day from cunning Pandarus,
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exhaustion closed my eyes.
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I dreamed myself was pretty Paris, plucked by Aphrodite from the field
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and dropped into Helen's naked lap.