Thunder stroke and he felt electrfied, purified, revived and raised. He cackled and guffawed and rolled with mad laughter.

Power now surroudned him, plenty for him to grab. So he went up and tamed, this new potency so raised, and bottled them on his floor.

Pocketed he a mosnter from the deep, pocketed he a monster from the heaven, pocketed he elemental forces under that floor.

They rumbled and roared and made the Earth shake, and he laughed once more!

Here on the graves of the departed have I not made you a mighty throne!

For you to lie forever on the dampened underworld!

Each time one giant the groud tore, or a bird of thunder the heaven broke, Zeus the god on his temple rejoiced.

Bearded brown trur white and with power, a king, he named a son. One hero selected among mortals Heracles that's the name he bore.

And Heracles wide and far travelled the whole world, searching for completion of his burdens, twelve labours to atone.

Tha gods had a temper legendary, they protected the city-states and commanded the passion of the Greek.

But how many a day can he still enjoy, the Titan-son?

On his dark abode, called oblivion, will he sleep? A thousand years till neopagans for he a song deploy?

He has coiled with death many a time, the sad man of Olympus, baned and deposed into mere mythology, a fancy fact, a figure of a broken lore.

Like all sad souls he's lost.

He that wanders with thunders at his employ.

But now that mortals have tamed his province, now that they are protected from his rage. They no logner respect him, or even know who he is. They no longer fear his wide blue bolt.