(after Horace, Epode VIII, Rogare longo)
Do you really have no idea, you silly tart,
why I don’t fancy you?
With your big tombstone teeth and your man’s voice,
and furrows in your forehead so deep,
I could plant leeks; and your hands stinking of trotters.
Your arse is like a house-end
and your jugs are all but down to your knees;
honestly, I’ve seen neater cows.
The last time I saw legs like yours,
they were dangling from a nest.
Never you mind though – God bless you, Aggie.
I’ll see that you get a damn good send off,
one that you would have been very proud of,
decked in your Sunday best.
But tell me pet, what’s with all this reading
by the fire at night?
Book-learning does nothing in my trouser region;
in fact, it’s a proper turn-off.
So, if it’s action you want, there’s nothing for it
but to take me in hand again.