O Muse of Glory, sing thou of Manus,
Sun tanned and magnificent, who once strode
Girt in splendour 'cross'd the 'net. He won us
Triumph; to him our legacy is owed,
Driving that colossal Hyperion
To topple clanstones, men, and fortresses
-Nor are these conquests Fame's sole criterion,
For just his mere glance felled panties and dresses.
O that brightest Sol might stretch his gold bow
And loose his shaft to crack the vault of hea'n
One last time, and send a ray to bestow
Upon the brow of Manus, so that then
His countenance might look on us once more,
And we might know him as he was before:
By the Grace of God,
His Royal Majesty, King of Hyperion, Duke of Wessex, Count of Elba, Baron of Yew, Lord of Long March, Grandmaster of the Solar Legion...
Oh lord, where have you been these many years?
Lady Sempiternam, Aide and Secretary to Manus, King of Hyperion.