How well he knew the wives of publicans,
come-hither smiles beneath the crumbling arches,
the lingering scent of unattended cunts.
He too was half mad, fond of <i>garum</i>, March's
sombre unforgiving leaden sky.
Yes, he paid taxes, cursing Midas most.
Like all false prophets he was wont to lie,
the wine upon his tongue his holy ghost.
So when they nailed him to a wooden cross,
two centuries before Lord Jesus Christ,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem