Classic Poem

Of all our bath-house thieves the cleverest one
Is you, Vibennius, with your pansy son.
(The old man's fingers suffer from a heinous
Itch, but the boy's as grasping with his anus.)
Why not deport yourselves, go anywhere
The weather's horrible? For all Rome's aware
Of Father's pilferings, and believe me, Sonny,
That hairy rump won't make you any money.