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["The Ides of March" - the original poem]
A Reply to the Doge's Birthday Ballade
by Danny "Don Juan" Henrey
Well, thanks (I think) for fair faxed naissance lay,
That minced along to Clifton's faxing bay
Upon that heady day. Alack, abedde
I dozed, amidst Helvetia's dazzling peaks,
A little sunburn, and a romp, to seek,
And spread fun's fulsome butter 'pon my bread.
"Ach, Liebling," quoth my leggy chamber maid,
"'Tis but an hour since were you lately laid,
Und nun seh' ich, by lordly duvet tent,
On more rumpy your will is iron bent."
'Twas true, by 'bogg'ning sport and bright, thin air
My appetites sharp and sateless had grown
(For, largely, life's best moments are when prone);
Yet stayed I 'T', so eager - and so bare.
"Turn down your flame, my moth - it's first things first,
Ere we another grape 'pon palate burst:
My stack of prezzies waits my sweaty mitts -
Egad, what are you doing with your ... comb?"
I turned aside, to tributes lately sent;
So, soon a glitt'ring pile of giftlets lap
The shag pile wide, as snow the mountains cap:
In my house of love, my tenants' annu'l rent.
Telegrams too, to be sifted and tossed -
From Bill, Boris and Tony ... those were 'lost';
The passle from my mates: well used, the lot -
For lining 'bogg'ning boots, they hit the spot.
More words of bil'ous sweetmeats from Lord O
I perused, where affection's bile braises
His candied manse of sardonic praises:
Strives he, yet his frilly petticoats show.
And yet, 'tis sad, this notion that I'm bad
(Flatt'ring though); I'm just a sweet and simple lad,
Whose hymns to Beauty and to Life are read
By darker souls as songs to blood and vice.
No matter; of my virtue I'll not be bled,
And in my (purplish) heart, I known I'm nice;
And happy therewithal, remembered was
By playmates spread from polar cap to Oz.
From Brenti's heights, my flag of thanks unfurls,
And, playful in my joy, a peasant hurls
Upon the smiling, spiky rocks below -
The pustuled throng roars at the merrie show.
I take a bow, and 'scape the scabby mob:
Unpack my trunks (no - not the swimming sort),
Survey the prize, with charms and passion bought;
Where there is art, there is no need to rob.
Excuse me then, for I must take a dip
In bracing Alpine floods, where most but sip;
For all's a'churning, as Lucretius saw;
'Tis better far to hurtle through the door.