Cornelius Varro knows his husbandry
and he maintains a flourishing estate:
‘My mutes stand guard at the entrance gate.
Vowels I lodge with my hired men,
half-vowels sit by the cattle pen.
Of course, I let the spirants work the field,
as they’re teaching the clover how to yield
to consonantal chimings from the church.’
But I’m uncouth and keep lip service back.
For I’m the one who herds his fields of wheat,
speaks softly till the stalks are white,
the ripe ears heavy. Then I sow my spite
and laugh to see how the rows stampede,
as I spread sedition with the highland wind
till they’re wrecked and broken. Then he sends men round
and I watch in silence as they slowly reap
his yearly tribute from my grudging ground.