Last night finally I agreed to make a
Facebook, answering all requests I'd gotten.
Certainly it is nice--connecting me to
People, getting a bunch of e-mail every
Time a person should change a little something--
But although I concede it has its merits,
Already it's an academic roadblock.
Now it's 6:27--all my binders
Lie unopened within my sealèd backpack.
With all heart that may lie within my ribcage,
I shall start on it once this poem is finished.
But already I've guessed that once it's over,
A cause, pettier still than what assailed me
Before, roaring shall come and take me captive,
Squeezing all of the juice within my brainbox
Into places where all I know to do are
Write on walls, or perhaps I'd count my friends' list.
But I shouldn't complain the way I'm doing--
This hendecasyllabic headache halts my
Work as well as does Facebook and its cousins.
But through writing this poem, my friends, I've learnt that
I should never again attempt this meter
In English; you'll agree the sound is awkward,
And the force that it carries when in Latin
Wholly dies when you move it o'er to English.
But I tried! Let you know, Catullus, that you
Have a friend who would gladly play in numbers.