So, you think my poems obscene? Read Catullus.
Graffiti-ed lavatories are more apt sites
for his scatological puerile poem writes.
Yet, today his leather bound tomes enthrall us.
Vicariously momentarily shot
back over two thousand years I get to watch
as he skewers harlots, fools and others such;
poetically, of course; who strut what they ought not.
Lesbia and her sparrow charm both him and
me, but she runs off with another; his sharp barbs
pursue. Now's my big chance; might my modern garbs
catch his eye? I'll boast he my poems scanned.
They don't; more's the pity. But he's so witty,
I fear he'll read my lines as merely pithy.