Aries

The best grass in the best fields
--all yours, Ram, in return for
your fleece—which seems
like a bargain until you find your
fleece is golden and
requires your death and
banishment to a star-field where
the grass is piss-poor.

Your fleece, meanwhile, is
dangled before heroes like
Jason, a death-or-glory boy
happy fighting harpies or
cthonic armies in rusty armour
for the honour of wearing your
chafing hide around his
ham-like neck.

And who thought of you, up there
eating burnt air and
eternally knowing what it's like
to be tupped?