Hail, Bacchus, to whom pleasure is divine!
He would not have us suffer on our knees,
nor drink of blood that masquerades as wine,
but worship him with raucous revelries.
Beauty matters not to him, nor fame,
nor wealth, except what pleasures wealth can buy.
He has no use for prayers steeped in shame,
pleas for forgiveness only make him sigh.
The shrieks of laughter at a tale well-told,
the heavy, dreamless sleep of o’erindulgence,
the breathless moans of passion uncontrolled,
bare bodies joined in sensual divulgence:
These are that which Bacchus understands,
and of each ardent devotee demands.