It sounds like that to me. We’d best shut up, so we find out for sure.

Iacchus, living here in your highly honoured shrines— Iacchus, O Iacchus in this meadow come to dance

with partners in your mystery. Shake the garland round your head, the fruit-filled myrtle, come and tread

our playful rite’s unbridled steps where the Graces join in, too— our pure and sacred dance and song, the chant of your initiate throng.

O holy noble daughter of Demeter, I just smelt roast pork—how sweet a smell that is.

If you keep quiet, you may just get a slice.

Awake the blazing torches in your hands!

O Iacchus, Iacchus—with us you stand light-bearing star in our nocturnal rite.

For now the meadow blazes light, old men’s knees will move again as they dance off their ancient pain, the lengthy cycle of their aged plight in this your ceremonial night..

As your radiant torches blaze bring to this flowery marshy place,

the forward march of all the young that constitute your choral throng, O sacred one.

Let all those stand in silence here and keep their distance from our dance— all those who have no sure command of ritual words and purposes, who have not purified their hearts, the ones who’ve never seen or danced the noble Muses’ ritual songs,

or played their part in Bacchic rites of bull-devouring Cratinus, or like words fit for foolish clowns

when such words are not suitable— or anyone who just can't turn away from fights and hateful party strife, who cannot be a genial citizen, easygoing with his countrymen, but lights and fans the flames of war, ambitious to advance himself,

whoever guides our state through storms and is corrupted by some bribe, betrays our watch-posts and our ships

or from Aegina smuggles goods, just like that wretch Thorycion, our customs agent who shipped off illicit stuff to Epidaurus— oar pads and cloth for sails and pitch, or who persuades some other man to send supplies to hostile ships,

or anyone opposing Hecate in dithyrambic choruses, or any politician setting out

to pare back pay our poets get because they mock him in these rites, the ancient rites of Dionysus.

I say to all such people, and I say again— and for a third time I state once more— stand back from our choral mysteries.

But those now here begin the songs,

the dances lasting all night long, as fits our ceremonial throng.

Now each one boldly marches on

into the meadow’s flowery lap, and each one stamps the ground— we joke, make fun, we mock, our bellies crammed with breakfast food.

Move on, now—but see you praise the saving goddess in a noble way, as you sing out our melodies.

She says she acts to save our land

from season unto season, against the wishes of Thorycion.

Come now, cry aloud another chant for goddess Demeter, our harvest queen, a celebration made in sacred song.

O Demeter, queen of our sacred rites, stand with us here preserve us now, your chorus. Let me play in safety, let me dance all day, tell lots of really funny jokes, and offer many serious reflections, too.

Then, as befits your ceremonial rites, let me, with my ridicule and fun, take off first prize, let me wear the wreath, garland of victory.

Come now, with your singing summon here that lovely god, our partner in this dance.

Widely honoured Iacchus, creator of the sweetest joyful song,

come here with us to Demeter, show us how you move along this lengthy way with so much ease.

Iacchus, lover of the dance, escort me forward as I prance.

In your playful penny-pinching mood `

you’ve torn my tiny dancing shoes, you’ve ripped my dress to shreds— Iacchus, you’ve found a way for all of us to dance and play what more, we never have to pay.

O Iacchus, lover of the dance escort me forward as I prance.

What's more, as I just glanced aside around me here, I saw a girl,

a lovely partner in the dance—

her scanty dress was ripped in two, I saw a nipple peeking through.

Iacchus, lover of the dance, escort me forward as I prance.

Hey, I’m always keen to enjoy myself. I’d like to dance with her.

Me, too.

Would you like to join us now in making fun

of Archedemos, who at seven years old was toothless, no genuine Athenian teeth. And now he plays big shot in politics

among the dead above—the best there is at double dealing and corruption. And Cleisthenes, I hear, still picks his ass and rips his cheeks apart among the tombstones, blubbering over his dead lover Sabinos. And Callias, they say, son of the man who used to bugger his own horses,

has fights at sea, naval entanglements, his arse hole covered by a lion skin. `

Could you please inform the two of us

where Pluto lives when he’s at home down here? We’re strangers in these parts. We’ve just arrived.

No need to travel very far from here— so don’t ask me again. You should know you’re there—right at this very door.

All right, lad, pick up the bags again.

What’s this all mean—the same old storyline,

with Corinth, son of Zeus . . . all this baggage.

Keep up the dance along the round path sacred to our goddess,

to the flower-bearing grove—let’s play with those who join this festival, the one our goddess so adores. I’ll join the women and the girls who dance to the goddess all night long, the ones who bear the sacred light. Let’s move on into flowery meadows,

the rose-filled fields, and worship there the way we always do, with song and dance, where blessed Fates assemble, too.

Let’s see—what style do I use at this point