In Vergilian antechambers
I learned to read the poems
(though most of them not worth it)
that they wrote in ancient Rome.
So many have loved Maro
(Dante among their number)
but every time I read him through,
I sense that I've grown dumber.
We read his verses on the walls,
drawn by Pompeiian hicks.
They seemed to find their proper place
among graffiti dicks.
Well, here's to a man who sold his pen
(his talent lies in shambles)
all to write about Aeneas
and his endless fucking rambles.
Against the Aeneid III: Son of ‘Against the Aeneid’
