Catullus: Poem 97


I didn’t, God help me, think it mattered whether
    I put my nose to Aemilius’ mouth or ass,
neither being cleaner or dirtier than the other;
    but his ass in fact is cleaner, not so crass—
no teeth, for starters. His mouth’s a cemetery inside:
    headstone grinders, gums like old wagon-leather.
What’s worse, that grin of his yawns about as wide 
    as a mule’s cunt splits for pissing in hot weather, 
and he screws all the girls, thinks he’s got charm and class—
    the mill wheel’s the place for him, let him go grind
grain, forget pussy! Any woman who makes a pass
    at him would lick a sick hangman’s rank behind.

Translated by Peter Green

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