Cinaede Thalle, mollior cuniculi capillo
vel anseris medullula vel imula oricilla
vel pene languido senis situque araneoso,
idemque, Thalle, turbida rapacior procella,
cum diva mulier aries ostendit oscitantes,
remitte pallium mihi meum, quod involasti,
sudariumque Saetabum catagraphosque Thynos,
inepte, quae palam soles habere tamquam avita.
Quae nunc tuis ab unguibus reglutina et remitte,
ne laneum latusculum manusque mollicellas
inusta turpiter tibi flagella conscribillent,
et insolenter aestues, velut minuta magno
deprensa navis in mari, vesaniente vento.

Thallus, you faggot, softer than rabbitfur,
or goosedown, or a sweet little earlobe,
or an old man's listless dick, lying in cobwebs and neglect.
And yet, when the full moon shows the other guests starting to nod and yawn,
you're grabbier than a plunging hurricane.
Give me back my housecoat, which you pounced on,
and my good Spanish flax table napkins, and the painted boxwood writing tablets,
which you keep on display, jerk, like they were heirlooms,
unstick them from your claws and give them back
or I'll use a whip to scribble some really embarrassing lines,
hot as the iron that brands disgrace on a common thief,
on your woolsoft sides and dainty little hands.
You'll get excited in a brand new way, your head will spin
like a boat caught out on the open sea when the winds go mad.