You Bar-fly Spittle, Flat-footed Sots

– after Catullus 37

You bar-fly spittle, flat-footed sots,
nine pillars down from Castor and Pollux,
your over-lapping asses upon your hundred stools,
have you convinced yourselves your man-tools
alone stand at attention, the rest of us he-goats
and girl-less? Or that I could not, bollocks
snug, with this one cock, gag your hundred gin-soaked throats
then scrawl across the wall with it these words:
Caius Catullus! my penis mightier than your swords?
For she, whom I loved and waged countless duels
has hollowed between these arms a bottomless abyss
and sits now, fuckable and fucked,
between you highborn fops and skulking alley rats.
Especially you, Egnatius, greasy-locked,
coney-toothed son of an Iberian, and who now behaves
as if a beard might dignify you, a man who sleeps in caves
and cleans his teeth in the Spanish way with his own piss.

– first published in Little Star Weekly