The poet Ovid in his long exile,
Barbarians had nothing to say,
Without verses life was so futile,
He deeply sunk in the dismay,
The only thing making him smile,
Most favorite of language games,
Was that provoking strong desire,
And rhyming loins with flames.
You find him strolling by the shore,
Away from Rome life is just a mess,
This saddest fact he easily ignores,
Until he can rhyme women's breasts.
Ovid in exile
© Copyright: Татьяна Делиева, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126050500834
Свидетельство о публикации №126050500834
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