The good old days have vanished,
And I suppose forever.
My thunderbolt once quivered
O’er mountain, plain and river.
But now they have it captured,
These humans so audacious.
They dole it out through cables,
To serve their plans rapacious.
They sell it through a meter,
Howe’er the gods may scoff it.
They send a monthly statement,
And make a profit off it.
Alas, my bolt of thunder
(And what worse could befall it?)
Is hopelessly commercialized.
“Juice” now I think they call it.