Slay the lion, slay the hydra,
Take away the hind’s horn,
For the fourth one, bag a boar,
Clean the stables  till you’re sore.
Give your word to slay the birds,
Swear to tame that cretan bull,
Ride the mares plum out of fuel,
And grip a little lighter the hip of Hippolyta,
Grab the girdle, jump the hurdle,
Steal the cattle from the fool,
And pray the beast won’t get the feast
He wishes of your skull.
And even if the apples
Aren’t as gold as ones you've known,
Never mind! Cut the vine!
Reap! Before that Titan goes!
But that distant thunder rolling
And the lightning all around,
Let it part before you start
Toward the triple-headed hound.