Ibyas, man of property,
Chloris’s husband, stop chasing young
women. Now that you’re
just about ready to die, give up
fucking around. It won’t do to
try passing for one of the randy studs
and darken the vigorous air
with Viagra’s lechery. Your grandson Nathus
runs after pretty girls, as well
he might, pursuing them into their villas.
Like a satyr piping his lust,
he’s a billygoat in his desire for Phloe,
but as for you, at your age,
it’s time to sit and snore. Forget love songs,
Ibyas. Stop lusting over
the Swimsuit Issue while you drink Bud all day.
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