 
                                        Others sicken,
others die,
     but not this man,
     but not yet this man,
not for as long as I find him useful.
The arrows of Apollo
     are unwelcome in his chest.
"I have claimed this mortal for my own.
     Ply your trade elsewhere,
     Mouse Lord,"
I cackle from my perch,
     and Apollo withdraws,
          fearful of my power,
          as they are all fearful of my power.
          These Olympians,
          These young godlings,
               even Zeus himself,
     knows enough to flee at the sight
of Atë, goddess of bad judgment,
of Atë, goddess of terrible ideas,
of Atë, who has taken up residence
          in the beard of Agamemnon.