I'll fuck you up the ass, and you can blow me,
you cocksucker Aurelius and you faggot Furius,
for suggesting that my little verses
are effeminate and not pure enough.
A good poet should be virtuous,
but his verses don't need to be.
Who cares if verses that have spice and wit
are soft and not very pure?
They can also get you going.
I'm not talking to boys here, but to two hairy men
who can't even move their creaky old loins.
Are you two putting me down
just because you've read about my thousands of kisses?
Fuck you both. You can blow me.
O most distinguished of the bathhouse thieves,
father Vibennius, and o buttfucking son,
(for the light-fingered father is quite foul,
and the son is voracious with his asshole),
why don't you go on a trip to someplace miserable,
since everyone knows about the robberies of the father.
And as for you, son, can't you manage
to sell your hairy ass to anyone for even a penny?
Girasole is a New England yogini whose recent feats of bravery include attempting to teach grammar to college freshmen.