You can frogmarch young Romans tired of drill and sick of ensilage
(as the young & lazy are), too lingual for their own good; or
fly on your lembos prow turned to Lesbos, a young bitter Antoninus on
your scent, where you'd have slept with spumy chin in the sand
(chin and spit on open sand!); and if you'd stayed home, enough millet and
panic galore would certainly dry up all imagination and pity in you
So dont’ be seduced into theft of cattle and gold and a cute naked roman Celt--
stay at a darling lake retreat and lay in torcs, anklets for spring,
Try rearing sires of yours to read lives instead of turning lewd, sly, laconic
Be a best friend rather than guest-friend, and hide one breast