WARNING: This is another of Martial’s dirty poems, and I have done nothing to soften the Latin into more “decent” English.
“I noticed, Lesbia, that whenever you get up from your chair, that dirty little dress of yours gives you a good assfucking. When you try to dig it out, with right hand or left, it’s always with tears and a groan: it’s all caught up when it passes too far between the Symplegades* that are those giant buttcheeks of yours. You want to fix this nasty little problem? I’ll tell you how, Lesbia: I think that you should neither sit down nor get up!”
De cathedra quotiens surgis—iam saepe notavi—,
pedicant miserae, Lesbia, te tunicae.
Quas cum conata es dextra, conata sinistra
vellere, cum lacrimis eximis et gemitu:
sic constringuntur gemina Symplegade culi
et nimias intrant Cyaneasque natis.
Emendare cupis vitium deforme? docebo:
Lesbia, nec surgas censeo nec sedeas.
*The mythical “clashing rocks” which were supposed to pose an incredible danger to ships attempting to pass through them.
That is filthy. But what a brlliant use of symplegades