A legend so delicious
could hardly have escaped
the excesses of the Romantics.
No king, living or imagined,
could exceed the lascivious hunger
ingrained in their decadent art.
Sardanapalus was sumptuously
ripe to beguile Lord Byron's
fecund pen, the lavish strokes
of a Delacroix brush, and the nihilistic
excesses of a Berlioz cantata.
Imagine Augustine's appall
had he time-travelled
to the salons of European aesthetes,
those who reveled in debaucheries
as old as time, as new as recently
uncorked, yet aged wine.