Bacchus would be proud of him. 
Pan, the rutting horny goat god,
has outdone himself this time.
This one is better than the April Fool’s 
Day Blizzard of 1997. Better than the 
New York City Blackout of 1965. 

Bigger than Woodstock!
Bigger than Mardi Gras 
and Rio’s Carnival combined.

The Celtic peoples had their Beltane, 
the Germanic tribes their Walpurgis, 
and the Romans their Floralia.

But ever since the Catholic Church 
succeeded in turning those ancient 
Spring fertility festivals into religious 

holy days of penance and observance, 
Pan has been plotting his revenge. 
He’d be damned if he’d stand by 

and let processions of crucifixes 
and candles replace young maidens
dancing around a Maypole.

His piece-de-resistance, the coup-de-grace,
would be forced hibernation, a 'Pan'-demic!
A cancellation of national sporting events

so no distractions would sublimate natural 
animal spring-time lusts. And best
all, church services canceled! Afraid 

to venture out for condoms, and not 
knowing when the covert virus might come
knocking on their bedroom doors, humanity

gives in to their natural urges. People
party like the end is near, 
which it surely is. 

Screw abstinence! 
Screw Lenten penances!
Screw Easter’s solemnity!
Just Screw!
Praise Pan!