The Songstone

omnes hi metuunt versus, odere poetas. 'faenum habet in cornu, longe fuge; dummodo risum excutiat sibi, non hic cuiquam parcet amico et quodcumque semel chartis inleverit, omnis gestiet a furno redeuntis scire lacuque et pueros et anus.' agedum pauca accipe contra. primum ego me illorum, dederim quibus esse poetis, excerpam numero: neque enim concludere versum dixeris esse satis neque, siqui scribat uti nos sermoni propiora, putes hunc esse poetam. ingenium cui sit, cui mens divinior atque os magna sonaturum, des nominis huius honorem. They dread our verse and hate the poets. “Flee!  Far! For there's hay tied to his horns. He won't  spare any friend to raise a laugh. Whatever  he scribbles down on paper, everyone  must know about it.” Listen, let me say  that first I’d cut my name from lists of poets; just churning out a verse is not enough. Someone like me, who writes in common language,  doesn't deserve it. Give that name to one  whose soul ...

                                                                  ... cum mea nemo scripta legat, volgo recitare timentis ob hanc rem, quod sunt quos genus hoc minime iuvat, utpote pluris culpari dignos. quemvis media elige turba: aut ob avaritiam aut misera ambitione laborat. hic nuptarum insanit amoribus, hic puerorum: hunc capit argenti splendor;   Nobody reads my writing; I'm afraid to read aloud, because some care but little for it, and most men are at fault. Pick one  out in the crowd: for greed he'll toil, or low ambition. This one's mad for married skirt,  that one for boys, a third for silver's gleam.

garrulus atque piger scribendi ferre laborem, scribendi recte: nam ut multum, nil moror... di bene fecerunt, inopis me quodque pusilli finxerunt animi, raro et perpauca loquentis   He's garrulous: detests the work of writing - writing his best I mean. For me, mere scribbling dulls. Thank the Gods my thoughts are few. I've no spirit; I speak but rarely, then say little.

eo fit, plenior ut siquos delectet copia iusto, cum ripa simul avolsos ferat Aufidus acer. at qui tantuli eget quanto est opus, is neque limo turbatam haurit aquam neque vitam amittit in undis. That's why Raging Ofanto scours the riverbanks carrying away who grasps for more than's fair But those who want just what they need won't choke in muddy pools, nor perish in the flood.

Another sanguine Sunday afternoon We left the snooze of Siaton for the pit I bet my cock; I lost a little bit The bookies pleased n plumage picayune

I would apologise for posting a link to this but I can't; it is the perfect song for Brexit. In every way. The Backstop... Substitute 'The EU' for 'Papishes'. Until the deracinated cultural bourgeoisie understand this, they will but continue their declining wail in the pages of 'The Guardian'. Dolly's Brae