I, Satyr

Believe it or not, I was once one of those devil-may-care baby satyrs. I was happy lapping up the wine and rubbing up against the young nymphs. Dionysus himself once gave me a pat on my hairy rump and told me how much he enjoyed watching me cavort.

But that Dionysus, despite his mortal mother, is a god, and, hence, immortal. Not so us lowly satyrs. We grow old and wizened. Our hooves crack and our horns become nubs. The drunkeness and the debauchery take a toll. We turn bitter. It doesn't help that those damned nymphs stay young and hot forever.

My only solace now is my flute. Trite merry trills are the fluff of the past. My playing is seasoned now with long bended minors and polytonality. I call it the Sadder Blues.