I like your way, Catullus, talking about the
whore who claims you owe her money, or
That guy who smiled too much--must have cleaned
his teeth with piss, or about how the poets
come with their blameless tame verse, or about
how this guy married a slut.

You come right out and say things,
you're not like the others; but, listen, Catullus,
didn't I see you at the race track bar last
Thursday? you had this great whale of a cunt
with you, must have scaled I90, one breast flopped
loose, dressed in lavender sheet, I believe I heard
her pass wind in public--her teeth green, her buttocks
of sagging celluloid, and you drunk and pawing into
her anus...
Surely, that was not you, Catullus, at the race track
bar last Thursday?