Poets and historians, tune your lyres:
sing to Virgilius Maro's note, along
with Titus Livius and Horatius Flaccus,
paeans to dignify our Golden Age
birthed clean from wastes of civil blood and muck. 

And creep, Ovidius Naso, off to Tomis!
Your Fasti places you well beyond our pale,
who would subvert our Metanarrative:
let orange suit and hood and barbarous yawp
reward your snide sedition, you sick fuck.

Green

I thought myself too tough, but I'm  
   afraid I've caught a dart:
no superficial graze--this time  
   straight through the heart.

How brash of Eros, thus to shoot
   a veteran through and through
with love, so that the ancient brute
   yearns for springtime you,

and offers himself--as if to say
   he's vigorous still, and green--
to serve you, radiant Queen of May,
   as your own true Paladin.