I sing of Priapus,
but without the aid of the Muses,
for those chaste Goddesses turn a blushing cheek,
as he comes near,
ambling along with that great thing between his legs.
The son of Dionysos is a friend of man,
for he stands firm in the garden,
and under his careful gaze
corn grows ripe on the stalk,
and fruit swells with life's sweet juices.
He watches out for thieves,
half hoping that they try to pluck the fruit in his garden,
for then he'll have a chance to pluck their fruit.
Ass, cunt, mouth - it matters not to him,
so long as his cock finds a home within their warm bodies.
Ha, I told you my verses would be crude,
but what did you expect for an ugly God made of fig-wood?