“Vae victis,” snarls Brennus, leader of the Celts.
He’s tall, with pallid skin and eyes, his blonde mane
so stiff with sticks, leaves, and lye, he seems to stand
in a high wind, hair blown behind him like a shelf.
“Vae victis,” he snarls, and heaves his heavy sword
onto the scales we’ve just balanced with gold,
trying to bribe him to lead his hordes away.
His face is shaved clean, but for a blonde mustache
so long it screens his chin. His Celts are many
as the acorns underneath their sacred oaks,
their war cries awful as being trepanned out of sleep,
though less bad than watching Brennus strain porridge
through that mustache. No, trepanation would be
worse, although our instruments’ design will outlast
two millennia. (So say our soothsayers, at least.)
What’s really awful is this lout telling Rome—
mouth full of mush, teeth grinding like millstones
turned by the slave that he was born to be—”Vae victis.”
Oracles foresee a time when men will speak through wires,
and drive metal crates faster than any chariot—
when children will watch, on glowing boxes,
a mouse, beaver, skunk, and squirrel attend a school
where they learn to chime, “Hurray
for differences!”—not to slaughter, enslave,
or even mock the weak, but to love everyone,
like that laughingstock we crucified a few years back.
Trust me, that time is not today.