Ode to Remus
What is it to sup upon the teat of wolf mother?
When decadence can be heard in the burning plays
Two brothers fight, for each has their druthers
Until even the Son loses its rays
The feral children never knew Nero’s tune
Or a question uttered sopped with betrayal
For Caesar never lived to bittersweet June
And Aeneas had lost the storm in his sails
But the rivers of blood that spewed forth from the city
that never seemed to sleep on its own
Were nothing but a madman’s ditty
If compared to the monstrous seeds it had sown
Till then the feral newborns come dawdling home
What would have come if there never was a