Varus, you know Suffenus as a man of charm and fashion,
He's a wit and a sophisticate – but poetry’s his passion.
He’s written ten thousand verses, and he wrote them, not like
On scraps or backs of envelopes, but with most elaborate fuss
On the highest grade of paper, with the classiest kind of
He only ever dips his nib in ink of special grinding.
Yet open up his folio to read what lies within
And the penmanship is perfect, but the poetry’s so thin -
Suffenus the sophisticate, the dandy-about town,
On paper is transformed into a dimwit lumbering clown.
He’s turned into a bumpkin by the Muses’ magic touch -
So how can such a meagre talent fancy himself so much?
Old Aesop wrote a fable of the metaphorical sack
That every man throughout his life must carry on his back.
It’s packed to bursting with his faults; which others clearly
But he does not, and never will – so he’s like you and me.
For we who think ourselves so wise may seem to others clots.
We all have packs upon our backs; we all have our blind spots.
Cato, here’s a laugh, you’ll say:
I saw a youngster yesterday
Dick-deep between his girlfriend’s thighs,
His pink bum pointing to the skies;
Seeing which (O Venus, pardon!)
I, having grown a healthy hard-on,
Turned the duo to a trio
By buggering the boy con brio.