That miser Catullus! Inept and tired designer!

Come on! You intended that woman to bat clean-up!

And none of us loves as qualitatively

as the one who doesn't love.

If I, if she, if all of us, even fire-breathing Lee Iacocca,

who even your ukulele wouldn't ask to bat clean-up,

are asked to numb this delicate design...

Nope! I'm ill, not a dolt! You, who doesn't like impotence,

and who necks and fucks like nectar, you are the miser!

And a perfectly minded, obstinate miser you are.

You woman! I am Catullus -- beat that!

I am required to neck, and I bite a little before I go into 'em.

At your dull party: How come no one brought berries?

Vain scoundrel! Who are you to be Monet?

When will you love no one? Who says you are an essence?

On what basis? Whose brain has more debris?

Ah, and you Catullus, whose obscure destination

is more beautiful than the smallest crime.

To poem

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