On the side of a Grecian urn, in azure clear,
One perceives a donkey, braying in the grass.
You, O Goddess, have stabbed him with your spear.
Truly, you are the most ancient pain in the ass.
Yet you have not lost your former glories!
For though you be not praiséd worse,
Still you loom large in piles of stories
Reprinted oft in anals of curse.
Our church rector has found in Biblic text
References to you for all manner of tragic issue.
And has cried through the rectory of Kleenex
So have you greatly engorged the rectal tissue.
Unwell men, fetishists, drool at your name
And the only ones who welcome you are nuts.
You irritate backsides, and are the blame
For many cigar smokers' swollen butts.
And though these hypocrites may up front say
They do not hate you, they curse you from behind,
For all object the havoc that you play.
'Tis but the hippocrates who profit find.
E'en still in Literature do they call
Out loud to you, from Shakespeare to Molière.
Are you not “the unkindest cut of all”?
Do you not torment the Malade In ma jean here?