I, Odysseus,
King of Ithaca,
Fear I must remain
Lashed to the mast
Of wedlock
By the cruel bonds
Of propriety.
And though your exquisite
Siren's song
Beckons me ashore,
All my strength
Will not suffice
To break me free
From life's reality
Which holds me back
From your arms, your lips,
Your fair embrace,
Your yielding moist
And fragrant folds
And my own certain doom.