Propertius Elegies I.i |
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Those eyes |
(I remember - dimly) |
She caught |
Me with |
Me!! Hooked! |
The one who wrote the book |
The ignominy |
My (ouch!) neck |
Those boots |
Viciously grinding |
ME! |
down |
into the dirt |
|
I cannot remember |
What it used to be like |
Before... (was there before?) |
What was the name |
Of that nice girl I went out with |
Strictly platonic |
Three hundred and bloody |
Sixty five centuries |
Ago? |
Isn't there a pill they can give you for God's sake? |
|
Atalanta was a cow |
Like her |
Milanion poor creep |
Went through HELL |
Quite lost his balance, poor fellow. |
Psychologically disturbed. |
She drove him to it, you know |
They carried him off screaming |
Screaming |
A Centaur you say? H'm. Very Freudian. |
Now she brings him weekly candy |
At the Arcadia Nursing Home plc |
His prayers |
Answered |
Finally |
Lucky man. |
|
No easy way out for yrs truly |
Friend Cupid did his bit |
And conveniently |
Buggered |
Off. |
|
In Zanzibar |
(it is said) |
A pinch or two |
Of finely-powdered |
Rhino-horn |
Sprinkled |
In the lady's gin |
Will do the trick. |
Costs the earth, but man |
Worth it |
To see |
her |
SWEAT. |
For a change. |
That would really be an A1 PR job |
For you witch-doctors |
And Juju men. |
|
Where have you been |
Call yourself friends? |
Come to jeer |
Pre-frontal lobotomy |
Works wonders works wonders |
Remove the pain |
Remove the freedom |
To choose |
The pain. |
|
Is it too late to emigrate? |
Turn queer? |
It's a man's life in the ... |
Join the navy and see ... |
The back |
Of HER. |
|
Join me. |
We'll leave it all to those |
Who know the secret |
(How do they do that?) |
The cosy |
Smugly |
Lovey-dovey |
Saturday-night |
People. |
|
I've lost enough sleep |
Through that deadly duo - |
There's nothing wrong with Venus |
Herself |
(I suppose) |
But I do wish that Boy Wonder of hers |
Would learn |
When |
To leave |
A guy |
ALONE. |
|
A farewell message? Just this |
Play safe. Take your time. |
Choose yourself |
One of the respectable ones. |
She looks like a horse? |
Blinkers on. |
For me |
It's too late |
now. |
The Classics Pages are written and designed by Andrew Wilson |