“It’s FRY-day,” cried the wenches, so excited for the fray.
“Let’s shorten him by inches, or report he may be gay;
Or let’s fix up the griddle and we’ll sizzle up some meat;
He’s fitter than a fiddle, and a salty little treat. “
 
But ladies, ladies, ladies, there’s a sign you overlook:
The rogue is known as Hades, so he’s not the kind you cook.
You think you’ll tenderloin him, but he’ll roll around the grill
And dare someone to join him (and I promise someone will);
 
So when you claim you’re winning, you’ve already missed the mark;
You’re in the seventh inning, but your target left the park.
You’re in the final quarter, but he left before the third
To steal the field reporter (who had asked to have a word).
 
It’s only fair to tell you that the man you vilify
Is only there to sell you till he knows you’ll kill to buy,
So know that he’s adaptive,  then it’s easier to see
That you’re his mindless captive, like a blind Persephone.