Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) - 1.8.1. lyrics

I was once a fig-tree's trunk, a lump of useless wood, Till the carpenter, uncertain whether to carve Priapus Or a stool, decided on the god. So I'm a god, the terror Of thieves and birds: my right hand keeps the thieves away Along with the red shaft rising obscenely from my groin: While the reed stuck on my head frightens naughty birds, And stops them settling here in Maecenas' new Gardens. Once slaves paid to have the corpses of their fellows, Cast from their narrow cells, brought here in a cheap box. This was the common cemetery for a ma** of paupers, Like that joker Pantolabus, and the wastrel Nomentan*s. Here a pillar marked a width of a thousand feet for graves, Three hundred deep, ground ‘not to be pa**ed to the heirs'! Now you can live on a healthier Esquiline and stroll On the sunny Rampart, where sadly you used to gaze At a grim landscape covered with whitened bones. Personally it's not the usual thieves and wild creatures Who haunt the place that cause me worry and distress, As those who trouble human souls with their d** And incantations: I can't escape them or prevent them From collecting bones and noxious herbs as soon as The wandering Moon has revealed her lovely face.