Cyclops: Money’s the wise man’s religion, little man.
The rest is mere bluff and purple patches.
I don’t give a damn for my father’s shrines
Along the coast!
Why did you think I would?
And I’m not afraid of Zeus’s thunder;
In fact, I don’t believe Zeus is stronger
Than I am. And
anyway I don’t care,
And I’ll tell you why I don’t care. When Zeus
Pours down rain, I take shelter in this cave
And feast myself on roast lamb or venison.
Then I stretch myself and wash down the meal,
Flooding my belly with a vat of milk.
Then, louder than ever Zeus can thunder,
I fart through the blankets. When the wind sweeps down
With snow from Thrace, I wrap myself in furs
And light up the fire.
Then let it snow
For all I care!
Whether it wants or not,
The earth must grow the grass that feeds my flocks.
And as for sacrifices, I make mine,
Not to the gods, but the greatest god of all,
This belly of mine!
To eat, to drink
From day to day, to have no worries –
That’s the real Zeus for your clever man!
As for those who embroider human life
With their little laws – damn the lot of them!
I shall go right on indulging myself –
By eating you.
But, to be clear,
I’ll be hospitable and give you fire,
And my father’s water – plus a cauldron.
Once it starts to boil, it will tender down
Your flesh very nicely.
So, inside with you,
And gather round the altar to the god
Of the cave, and wish him hearty eating.
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