King Minos, Spited by the God of Oceans, Hesitated but a while Before poor Pasiphae's bull-headed son Was penned inside the labyrinth, And then, as if to throw away the key, Inventor Daedalus and his dear son Were for their work a prison tower fee'd. But they grew wings, for as we know, An inventor's work is never done... If only Icarus had listened And kept a proper place below the sun, Breugel's painting would have lost Its distant splashy focal point; The plowman and the shepherd would Have stood alone above a perfect sea.
Old Minos never had a chance, And though the cunning Hunter, (He, who found the man who Made a string crawl curving Through a shell behind an ant), Had won... decided to disrobe And take a dip...a foolish act To choose when Daedalus Would serve a hot revenge.
Daedalus, who knew the score, Burned wood to make the water soar; In vengeance vented spiteful wrath, And cooked old Minos in his bath.