Midas was a king of quite some repute,
but not, of course, on the issue of the flute,
so when a satyr claimed to be of more skill
than the great Pan’s own divine musical will,
it was inevitable that Midas be chosen to adjudicate,
Hence consigned to a terrible fate.
Bribes were given, though they should not have been,
But the law of the land allowed no thing in between.
Pan promised none save that his music be sung with care,
whilst satyr Marsyas, arrogant flute-player
He was, no fool being a donkey threw
to King Midas, thus tipping the scales askew.
Before any strains of music were played,
Up and decided was the King’s mind made,
He knew Marsyas would receive the award,
to be granted in his power as a kingdom’s lord.
He told Pan the news, to make him understand,
But for all his efforts had ignited a firebrand.
So Meleager died [though of that I do not sing,
The tale of Pan being the most current thing].
Thus Pan, so enraged, asked the donkey for his thoughts,
“Whose music will have won should the battle be fought?”
The creature, with prudence, did quickly reply,
“Pan, you will win, even if you do not try.”
Pan declared, “O creature, you have great ears,
But Midas does not—or so I fear,
I must balance these scales, even if
Your hearing will fall surely as if from a cliff.
Remember, or think, that Midas cannot hear,
But with your ears he should have nothing to fear.”
And so Midas did run in fear when he saw
The donkey’s ears above his jaw.
In his palace he hid, for many a year,
Until at last his hair gave him a fateful sneer,
And began to speak, its wish to which I can attest,
Saying that to be cut would be the best.
Now, if your hair has not spoken to you,
You will not understand, that may be true,
But Midas was driven mad by fear,
And sent for the best barber of whom he could hear.
’Twas Phoibos, as a matter of course,
Apollo, of whom the art of hair-cutting had its source.
He descended in a chariot ferried by Helios the great,
Who his return with bated breath did await.
Now Midas said to his potential barber,
“Cut the hair and of the ears, speak not a word, sir!”
Amazed was the one who spoke only truth,
And so he said, “I can speak naught but sooth,
You ears, sir, are quite frightful,
But if I can I shall any legends of them cull,
To the best of my ability, but I cannot promise,
That I may fully obey this.”
He slew the old hair as he had the Python,
Shears flew like arrows and fell upon
Old Midas’s great head of hair,
Catching the elderly hair in a snare
And freeing the rest of it to grow as it pleased
The old king Midas was quite appeased.
Apollo left in a daze, for he was quite taken
By the donkey’s ears, yes, they left him rather shaken.
He resolved that the secret must be let out,
And so he gave a great big shout,
To a tree, a tree growing out by nowhere,
“Midas has donkey’s ears in his horrible hair!”
The voice of Apollo is something indeed,
Upon it the tree began to feed,
Growing and growing too fast for its own good.
Its leaves became tangled hair where it stood,
While it became a nymph named Daphne.
The tree by the breath of Apollo had been set free.
A serious problem now made poor Daphne weep.
For alas! Her hair was all in a heap.
There was only one thing for it—she needed a haircut,
And lo and behold what she should see but
Apollo nearby, the greatest barber ever known,
Unfortunately, he had already from the area flown.
Tormented by the ears of Midas did he hurry forth,
His only destination the lands of the North.
He fled, and he swore he would never cut hair.
For to avoid those ears, the precaution seemed fair.
He reckoned not, however, poor Daphne,
Whose hair was so poor that it simply could not be.
And so she pursued him, and he noticed her not,
They ran in an endless circle as they fought
She with him, and he with himself.
At last, like a creeping thoughtful elf
An idea came to Apollo, and it was a good one
To ascend into the chariot of Helios, the god of the sun.
Poor Daphne could only watch as he flew away,
But she would be consigned to at her place stay.
Already she grew accustomed to where she’d forever be,
Until at last she became a tree.
Only many years later did Apollo come back,
And the sight of her tree did stop him in his track.
“Oh, tree, you are in such horrible shape!”
Such did he exclaim, seeing the hair round her nape,
The leaves, well, they were as horribly arranged
As her hair had been before she was changed.
Apollo sought to rectify this,
For he was a barber when things weren’t amiss.
He took the cut laurel and from it made a crown
To be awarded to those who would in history go down,
From Pan to Daphne we have progressed,
I think to finish here might be the best.
Finished was the wreath, crafted so well,
And so ends the story I wished to tell.
Now, you having read this, I hope against hope
That you thought it to be of quality maybe? Nope?
I have taken care not to be exact,
And these myths so retold are not in line with fact.