by Dafydd ap Gwilymtranslated by Dannie Abse
I don't give a monkey-nut for their prissy talk. Sunday - forgive me Lord - is an amiable time to chase the chaste. After church of course. But no unburdened smile or sweet kiss ever from one starched lady of Llanbadarn And me, so randy, I can hardly walk. Give them boils, Lord, for none my needs assuage - not even she whose nose seems like a chair for spectacles! I ache. If only one, in luck, roused me in the heather then Garwy himself would stagger back envious and awestruck. Lesbians, they must be. Give them pox, Lord, and age. When parasolled, they left the church slow-paced along the gravel pathway, past the grand shadow of the yew, I winked, I whispered. Nun-faced they frowned their strait-laced Never! So I, as true a stud as Garwy stand near graves, full of sperm. Oh what a waste!