Classic Poem

Maecenas, you ask why my versified task
I frankly, defiantly shirk;
You think a Lethean decoction might be an
Excuse for the slump in my work.

It's Cupid whose curse puts a crimp in my verse;
It's Love that has muted my lyre.
Well, didn't Anacreon burn with a — sacre! —
Undying, unquenchable fire?

He'd frequently tell as he sang to the shell
How deeply, how hotly he burned.
You needn't act haughty yourself.
You've been naughty;
You've sighed and you've ached and you've burned.

Be glad that the dame who arouses your flame
Is fairer than Helen of Troy.
For Phryne, a teaser, I fret. But O Caesar!
O my! O Maecenas! O boy!

Maecenas, you ask why my versified task
I frankly, defiantly shirk;
You think a Lethean decoction might be an
Excuse for the slump in my work.

It's Cupid whose curse puts a crimp in my verse;
It's Love that has muted my lyre.
Well, didn't Anacreon burn with a — sacre! —
Undying, unquenchable fire?

He'd frequently tell as he sang to the shell
How deeply, how hotly he burned.
You needn't act haughty yourself.
You've been naughty;
You've sighed and you've ached and you've burned.

Be glad that the dame who arouses your flame
Is fairer than Helen of Troy.
For Phryne, a teaser, I fret. But O Caesar!
O my! O Maecenas! O boy!