Classic Poem

[Life's bad on just a bit, but
This Horace quite denies. (Lies!)
That bard, so fat and bloated, gloated
At us fools.

[Yet—with respect of course—Horace
Is blessed with wealth and wit; it
Is jolly, ever joking, stroking
All his jewels.

[Who could tot up his verses (Curses!)
When breakfast, lunch and tea flee?
When baker's buns you yearn for? (Earn more
And ate one?)

[See, ravenous I come; my stom-
ach barks and hugely rumbles, grumbles;
Pray, renovate my large gorge,
Wise patron!

[My verses all selected, protected
With rags, their trembling master, Pastor,
His Muse with shaking plumes, comes
To your fold.

[Oh, let her not go nude. Would
You cover her, she'll never ever
Annoy thee unless depressed
By the cold.

[I hate to beg. I moan (Ochone!)
Returning to your store for more,
And plunge my hands again within
(non dolet?)