Catullus
CXI
Here, Auffilena!
(oh, baby, oh)
Ya seem like such a
Nice
Mot
All standin by yer man, eh?
The family sort;
no gammy
slapper
You.
Yo.
Wait, Auffilena –
No offence meant
but…
Since when do
Nice
Mots
play
hide the salami
with their daddies
and
mammy
(oh, baby, oh)
baby brothers in prammies?
Blow, baby, blow,
back to yer master.
Nice be fucked;
better a brasser.
CXII
So, Naso
What’s the story?
Flyin solo?
Mad.
Had
you
for wan a the
lads.
The obligin kind;
a good skin;
ya can rely on him,
all…
palsy-walsy.
Oh…
Do yer
buddies
not like it when ya
Head
Down
Town
trousers
Round
yer heels?
(quick feel)
Up the …
Brenda!
Pathetic baloney.
Balletic palone.
Go…
will ya,
ya steamin bender.
CXIII
See her, Cinna?
Maecilia.
Face like a dog’s dinner
but –
Back in the day…
Man. She was fine
Well-stacked.
Liked it both ways, baby,
rear and
front.
Gaggin for a lashin,
Ibiza-tats a-flashin,
no lack
a crack
There.
Now Pompey’s back
and the bitch is outta fashion,
forsakin the hunt
sacrificin the passion
gone Welfare cheque-cashin
rearin that three-pack a
runts.
Busy busy busy.
Stinkin nappies
Wailin brats
Two timin
cunt.
CXIV
Watch him roarin up the track –
Mr Flash!
Big Dick
(jammy prick)
with his
fourwheel drivin
high rankin
brand spanking
country gaff in
Firmum,
the dumb
wank.
Rich, me hole.
It all belongs the bank
and poor Knob-end’s
no better in the sack.
Face facts.
Credit’s maxed.
Roar, Cock, roar, and
fire yer useless blanks.
Published in The Irish Catullus edited by Ronan Sheehan A&A Farmar, 2010: Dublin
