Curiosity killed his men
as he had known it would.
No leader but a clever crafter
of emotions, he had piqued their interest
with talk of women,
buxom, tall and followers of
the quaint custom of multiple husbands.
With their men away for trade
for months of the year
it was essential
to keep the lines from breaking.

No raw recruits, six long months
in the jungle, he saw
their eyes widen, their crotches tighten.
Seated round the glowing fire,
he played their lusts
like guitar strings.

And so they went in, eager
to meet the women so different
from their own, who would
throw themselves on the funeral pyre
rather than betray their dead husbands.
Who sat at home now, waiting, weaving,
their virtue locked up
in centuries of subjugation.

It was the women killed his men
after they followed him into the town,
after they'd had their pleasure,
after they'd made him king.
Just as it was told in the old chronicles,
which only he could read.