Stop singing of warriors, you wretched child. We’re at peace. And you’re a cursed idiot.

“When they’d come close up against each other, they smashed their ox-hide bucklers and their embossed shields.”

Shields? Will you stop reminding us of shields!

“Then came men’s groans with shouts of triumph too.”

Men’s groans? By Dionysus, you’ll be crying as you sing out those groans and embossed shields.

Then what should I sing? Tell me what you like.

“Thus they feasted on cattle meat.” Stuff like that.

Stop singing of warriors, you wretched child. We’re at peace. And you’re a cursed idiot.

“When they’d come close up against each other, they smashed their ox-hide bucklers and their embossed shields.”

Shields? Will you stop reminding us of shields!

“Then came men’s groans with shouts of triumph too.”

Men’s groans? By Dionysus, you’ll be crying as you sing out those groans and embossed shields.

Then what should I sing? Tell me what you like.

“Thus they feasted on cattle meat.” Stuff like that.

“They set out breakfast, all the sweetest food to eat.”

“Thus they feasted on cattle meat and, tired of war, loosed their sweating horses from the harnesses.”

That’s the stuff. They were fed up with warfare and then they had a feast. Sing about that— about how they ate after they were tired.

“When they were finished and had regained their strength . . .”

I’m sure they were feeling really splendid.

SON OF LAMACHUS [continuing] “. . . and poured out from the towers. A mighty shout arose . . . ”

To hell with you, boy, you and your battles! You sing of nothing but war. Whose son are you?

Me?

Yes, by god, you.

I’m Lamachus’ son.

Bah! Listening to you sing, I was wondering if you might be the offspring of someone addicted to the war, who’s sad without one. Go away! Go sing your songs to spearmen. Where’s that young son of Cleonymus?

Sing me something before you go inside. I don’t think you’ll sing about stuff like that. Your father’s a far too prudent man.

“Some man from Sais now glories in my shield, that splendid shield, which I left, against my will, beside a bush . . . ”

Tell me, you little prick, are you singing about your own father?

Me?

Yes, by god, you.

I’m Lamachus’ son.

Bah! Listening to you sing, I was wondering if you might be the offspring of someone addicted to the war, who’s sad without one. Go away! Go sing your songs to spearmen. Where’s that young son of Cleonymus?

Sing me something before you go inside. I don’t think you’ll sing about stuff like that. Your father’s a far too prudent man.

“Some man from Sais now glories in my shield, that splendid shield, which I left, against my will, beside a bush . . . ”

Tell me, you little prick, are you singing about your own father?

Me?

Yes, by god, you.

I’m Lamachus’ son.

Bah! Listening to you sing, I was wondering if you might be the offspring of someone addicted to the war, who’s sad without one. Go away! Go sing your songs to spearmen. Where’s that young son of Cleonymus?

Sing me something before you go inside. I don’t think you’ll sing about stuff like that. Your father’s a far too prudent man.

“Some man from Sais now glories in my shield, that splendid shield, which I left, against my will, beside a bush . . . ”

Tell me, you little prick, are you singing about your own father?

“But I saved my life . . . ”

And shamed your parents. But let’s go in. I’m sure you won’t forget what you’ve just been singing about the shield, not with that father of yours.

You people who are staying here, your work is to chomp on all this stuff, chew it up— don’t just pretend you’re working. Get to it like real men, with both jaws grinding hard. You poor sods, your white teeth are no use at all if they’re not used for chewing.