by Elliot Siemon

Created on: July 15, 2009

Emperor Claudius, a Moment Please...?

'Tis heresy, heresy, I know,
However, something needs to be said.
For many, as unwelcome as woe,
Rocking the Empire, a deed I dread.
But, sadly, there's evidence of fraud,
Handed down generations ago;
For many, something to applaud;
Forgive them, fantasy's all they know.
'Twas a time relatively devoid -
Author's ethics - unknown - not a trace,

But many, far from being annoyed,
Religious fantasy, they embrace!
Roughly, four thousand years B.C.E.,
From the lands of Phrygia and Thrace;
(Today, Turkey and Greece, by decree),
There, Cybele, Mother of Gods rose to grace.
The issue, that of "The Good Shepherd",
The son of Cybele by virgin birth.
She swallowed an almond, goes the word;
Food for thought, for whatever its worth.
Her ill conceived shepherd son, Attis,
Despite being beloved by all,
Ambivalent toward male status,
And those he couldn't help but enthrall...
One day seated under a pine tree -
Self emasculation he performed.
Bleeding to death, of life he was free,
Free of the ladies he may have warmed.
Thought grieving of the life she gave,
No son a mother's love could betray,
She brought him to a burial cave,
Attending to him without delay.
Despite the tragedy, fame beaconed.
For Attis adoration was rife;
Celebrated March twenty second,
That third day, she brought him back to life.
Emasculated priests, the Galli,
Enticing crowds with music and dance,
Wild emasculation and folly;
Votaries of Attis they entrance.
Over his effigy, their blood spilled;
Bound to a pine log with garlands strung;
Carried through the streets, revelers thrilled;
To the crowds, their precious gonads flung...
Quite surely, an engaging story,
And the delusional classes agree;
Taller the tale, greater the glory;
Strangely... the fantasy sets them free....

Emperor Claudius, we beg you -
Since our worship of Cybele, there's been,
A renaissance for Rome, quite true,
Finer crops than we can imagine;
Hannibal routed, what a blessing,
And the Empire's quite fit, won't you say;
No better an age could Cybele bring,
And to her, our homage, we may pay.
Philosophers and scholars agree,
Here, at Rome's Temple of Victory,
Holy Valatine Hill's Sacred Tree,
Lies her legacy and history.
But these delusions about her son...
The hysteric emasculation;
Only imbeciles would call that fun!
What misplaced, perverted devotion!
And what captivates his devotees?
Selling of the warm fuzzy feeling,
And delusionists it always sways!
For the rest, sends our innards reeling.
Their "Day of Blood", March twenty second;
December, twenty fifth, his birth;
To ancient pagans these dates beaconed,
To the enlightened ones, 'tis but mirth.
Regard virgin birth as relative,
Inter their inane resurrection.
Certainly there's an alternative;
Such fantasy cries for correction.
The Empire deserves something better,
Not predator eunuch fanatics,
With their fantasy's insane fetter,
And fuzzy, warm recruiting antics.
Since reality is what most believe,
Consider a change - for those classes.
Something scholarly, we can conceive,
Something to help control the masses...

Ref: The Golden Bough, 1922,
Sir James George Frazer (1854-1941), Chapter 36.

Copyright All rights resserved 2009

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