O pitiless Procuratores,
Inflictors of fines.
We have smote and made redder than roses,
With juice not of fruit nor of bud,
The truculent town’s-people’s noses,
And bathed brutal butchers in blood;
And we, all aglow with our glories,
Heard you not in the deafening din,
And ye came, O ye Procuratores,
And ran us all in.