Vulcan sipping his wine, it’s laced with ambrosia. Pompei sitting below, our god of fire. His throat rumbles with molten destruction. Roman peasants are buried by vomit. The vomit, of Vulcan.
I heard he was drunk on power. He manipulated the mountain so high. Inhale his ash. Citizens flee, with tears in their eyes. Fire is falling from the sky. City laid to ash, everyone goes blind. Inhale his smog. Suffocation carried to the young and the old and while nothing is safe, the tale has been told.
Through sinister smoke and smolder
Vulcan tears through dismay. His patrons have now become his victims. He sets up his glass, he sets down his pipe. His binge was for absolutely nothing.
Vulcan stands up. Drunk as a god, and his body lies above Roman city. His time is end, he’ll come crashing down and the people writhe unto his pain.