Imagine growing up in Troy,
N.Y., and Helen is your name.
You have no choice, obliged to find
A Menelaus right next door,
Or who'd be spurned? A Joe? A Ted?
I don't think so. In Paris, Mo.,
Abscond with some old mogul's wife,
Hide her behind your stuccoed walls,
Crouching for years and years and years,
Until she has grown hoarse with scorn,
All attitude? The men of Troy
Hector their bonne wives endlessly,
The voice of Nestor wafting in.
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