He was phallus incarnate

rage and passion both carnal and sedate

his dance was of great rigour

but steeped in dew and ardour

no sarcasm, no guile

no details of cunning kind

only the pure blue feelings

stuck in his throat

he danced for days on end

and gained thus a reputation

for being and becoming

creation and adoration

his dance is the thunder

wearing anklets

his song the rain

soaking earth

a vast populace

opens its hearts

to his passion’s

ritual insinuatiion

the drum-beats

are small

but his trishul long

three pronged he kills

love, lust and avarice

with his big feet dancing

to rhythm and beat

he births

love, desire and mavericks