Postmodern Paris pt II

I understand how Paris felt
when he looked upon Helen
in Menelaus' house

Did her frantic ramblings
make him want to hold her?
Did her every tear burn
like acid on his flesh?

Did he feel this sneaky, this slimy
with every thought of her ivory skin
on the nape of her neck?

Was every stolen glance
worth its weight in gold?
Did every chance touch
send shivers down spines?

They probably held secret council.
She cursing her uncaring husband;
he hanging on her every word.

Run away with me, I'd say
but I know you won't.
Saddly, I am no Paris
and you no Helen of Troy.