The bird that lays eggs on the shore
told me any truth was rarely pure.
Its bill drooped like a pelican,
its tail fairer than a peacock’s fan.
The time was the time of Troy,
I was a shepherd boy.
I played my pipe on a slope.
I knew if down a well I fell,
a passer by may hear my cry,
tell me not to struggle,
let down a rope.
An old man, a smile on his mouth,
said he had journeyed from the south.
To think the Trojans fell for the trick,
they seem now dumber than a brick,
the Greek ploy of the wooden horse,
seems simple to work out now, of course.
Such were the words he said to me,
voice like waves of a far off sea.
They should have chose a better fate
than to drag it through the city gate.
Set fire to it with a defiant roar,
made it stand a beacon on the shore,
for the Greeks to see red fire and black smoke
that rose on high for the sky to choke.
Dismayed, they would have known for sure,
they had lost the siege and the war.
Never take for granted what may seem,
he warned, then I woke from my dream.