she read his poems
she read them to the men waiting in her bed
then tore them up
laughing
and fell on the bed
opening her legs to the nearest convienient
cock.
but Catullus continued to write love
poems to her
as she fucked slaves in back
alles, and
when they were together
she robbed him while he was
drunk,
mocked his verse and his
love,
pissed on his
floor.
Catullus who
otherwise
wrote brilliant
poems
faltered under the spell of
this wench
who
it is said
as she grew old
fled from him
begat a new life upon a far isle
where she ended up a
suicide.
Catullus was like
most poets:
i understand
and i forgive as i
re-read him:
he knew
as death approached
that it's
better to start out with a
strumpet then to end up
with one.
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