Horace is happy as a pig in sh**e in Dead Beat's tool shed. He bursts out occasionally spouting off some nonsense or other then disappears back in. I throw him a handful of Hudson's leftovers. He nearly bites my hand off.
This morning he flings open the back door and shouts in:
"Happy is Fannius, with immortals classed,
His bust and bookcase canonized at last,
While, as for me, none reads the things I write.
Loath as I am in public to recite,
Knowing that satire finds small favour, since
Most men want whipping, and who want it, wince."
"How do you like your eggs?" I shout after him as he scurries away.
Very much enjoyed the time I spent reading and looking around your site...as a poet myself, I found it a most rewarding look. Thank you...
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