Climb, climb ye dastard host,
Climb like the vine o’er the earth,
Though burned and cracked,
We yearn our path,
And spring to fruit,
Given half a chance.

Dance, dance to doom or prayer,
To skip upon the vibrant plain,
Betwixt the overfurnished woods,
That leave us light of heavy chain,
And release the strangled limb,
Once set to motion now made dim.

Sing, sing your praises high,
That he may hear us well,
That the might of Olympus may shower down,
With fortune like ocean swell,
To then draw back as galloping tides,
When heady scents we no more find.

Drink, drink deep of the cup,
That blood of mirth that sense beset,
Laid soft with kindest Bacchic intent,
So as to let our mortal lips be wet,
By wisdom that escapes all pride,
Pushing usual fears aside.

Feel, feel the rigmarole,
Of heaving throng with sole intent,
That burst like flood without a bank,
A score of sanity to set,
Left absent of place to lay down arms,
With our role that knows no regret.

Lust, lust for all there is,
That thoughts be turned from out to in,
To where the mind cannot intrude,
So strong is touch and taste and sin.
That sultry beat none overcome,
So surrendered to the bodies natural drum.

Stamp, stamp so as the earth to shake,
To march assured of one’s place,
Amongst the giant cats and goats and naked skin,
Ivy draped o’er curving breast in perkiness of every race.
Together we bare our master on our flanks,
His touch much greater than any thanks.

Kill, kill for your god,
With safe knowledge of the law made flesh,
And that no other may ever match,
The testaments we on mountains etch,
That sign the strength of those like us,
Outside the usual moral fuss.

Live, live like none before,
A life of honeyed days in store,
With purpose that brings pleasure too,
The many dullards harried by the few.
We go beyond even the Satyrs road,
That marched to Indus with an army’s load.

For we are Bacchus’ dastard host,
We Maenads move like vine o’er the earth,
Though burned and cracked,
We yearn our path,
And spring to fruit,
Given half a chance.