Would certainly give you hysterics.
Song now, just like wine, must ferment.
The dewdroppy old dithyrambics
You loved, in our day don't go down.
Our maidens like brisk galliambics
On which you would frown.
Indeed ithyphallics—but, bless us!
Our poesy, Saint, unto you
Would be like a new shirt of Nessus.
Our art is all yellow—or blue.