Does this make my butt look big?
No, it just makes your brain look small.
The Last of the Wine
You think if we sigh, drinking the last decanter,
Were sensual topers, and thence you are ready to prose
And read your lecture. Need you? Why should you banter
Or badger us? Better imagine it thus; suppose
A man to have come from Atlantis eastward sailing --
Lemuria has fallen in the fury of a tidal wave,
The cities are drowned, the pitiless all-prevailing
Inhuman sea is Numinor's salt grave.
To Europe he comes from Lemuria, saved from the wreck
Of the gilded, loftily builded, countless fleet
With the violet sails. A phial hangs from his neck,
Holding the last of a golden cordial, subtle and sweet.
Unnamed is Europe, untamed; wet desolation
Of unwelcoming woods, the elk, the mammoth and the bear,
The fen and the forest. Men of a barbarous nation
On the sand in a circle standing await him there.
Horribly ridged are their foreheads. Weapons of bone,
Unhandy and blunt, they brandish in their clumsy grips.
Their females set up a screaming, their bagpipes drone;
They gaze and mumble. He raises the flask to his lips.
It brings to his mind the strings, the flutes, the tabors,
How he drank with poets at the banquet, robed and crowned,
He recalls the pillared halls carved with the labours
Of curious masters, (Lemuria's cities lie drowned),
The festal nights; the jest that flashed for a second
Light as a bubble, bright with a thousand years
Of nurture; the honour and virtue, the grace unreckoned
That sat like a robe on the Atlantean peers.
It has made him remember ladies, proud glances,
Fearless and peerless beauty, flower-like hair,
Ruses and mockery, the music of grave dances
(Where musicians played, huge fishes goggle and stare).
He sighs, like us; then rises and turns to meet
Those naked men. Will they make him their spoil and prey
Or salute him as god and brutally fawn at his feet?
And which would be worse? He pitches the phial away.