One day in the Roman arena,
The proconsul's wife, Cartagena,
Cried out"Stop the slaughter!
I want for my daughter,
That slave. Issue now a sub-poena."
So though he was dressed in a rag,
They grabbed hold the lad for to drag
Him off to the palace
To have there his phallus
Checked o'er by the warty old hag..
She flicked it with huge feather duster,
And shortly she had to adjust 'er
Gaze, As his thing, once so thin,
Grew, aimed up at his chin.
She muttered, "I think he'll pass muster."
He went where her young daughter lay,
And many's the game they would play.
She loved forms of sex,
Like LXIX,
But best loved the Appian Way.
So life now was great for our hero.
His chances of death now near zero,
As long as his churn
Makes Lydia burn.
He fiddled much better than Nero.
Tuesday, June 25, 2002