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Poem

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.

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