Were I at all a praying man, I’d fall prostrate in the dust,
And on my face before the gods, I’d praise them for my lust.

Or goddesses! That’s even better, if I had my choice!
I’d sit and eat and drink with them, and tell them of my lust.

Not that they wouldn’t already know — my eyes do tell the tale.
But heroic yarns I would nonetheless spin of my love of love and lust.

“Behold!” I’d yell, brandishing the goblet, all disheveled in my ardor:
“If only you knew how my brain and my body simply roil with constant lust!”

“Oh, we certainly know,” they’d sing to me, and spin choruses ’bout my thirst
For ruination, for anticipation — for the fleshly realization — of all Leif’s loves and lusts.