History: Nonsense Reinvented

By the time we got to Carthage,

the mushrooms had taken a firm grip on reality.

George did another bump of coke,

trying to clear his head,

while I relished in the strange green and purple hue

that had drowned the deep blue sky.

"Fuck it," I said hopping ashore.

George, eyes dilated, followed curiously.

The steep and rocky shoreline was uninviting to say the least.

Distressed, I popped the cork from my bottle of rum

and lit a fat joint, taking strong toke after toke.

George, my resourceful little primate, pulled out his satellite phone

and called Jesus, who knew Ganymede, who knew Helios,

and arranged for us a ride.

When Helios arrived, we covered our eyes.

That motherfucker was bright and hot,

George singed his eyebrows.

The ride was a short burst of bright white light over the mountain,

and Helios vanished.

When we arrived at the tomb,

George called in the air strike to Zeus,

"Bombs, such a modern convenience."

When the smoke cleared, the tomb was open.

What truth we might discover there?

Outraged, the grave keeper rushed us, pickax in hand,

exclaiming, "What right have you?"

Sanctioned by Jesus and Mohamed, and the other gods in tow,

I handed the bony gray old man some dope, and replied,

"We've come to exhume Dido."