Britannia.Pretani.Land of the Tattoed.
A rare exotic asset held at cost,
The barbarians always out there,
Wily,resolute and bold,
Hidden in the hazy weather,
Beyond the wall...
The grizzled legionaries stare out
From their posts,
Into the Brigantes’ hunting ground.
The very trees and hills are in revolt.
“Wretched little Britons,” the centaurs
Came dashing out of the fog,
On nimble little ponies, turning
And wheeling with supernatural ease,
Horse and rider one body,one mind.
On either side the war-gods’ shrines
Steam with sacrifice
The Romans,for their part,
Thank their patrons for gifts received;
The Celts, more wary and propitiatory,
Make offerings in advance.
Across Northumberland moors and valleys
The young Roman commander and his cohorts
Gallop their horses to hounds, exulting.
No finer sport is to be had anywhere in the Empire!
At a lucky spot he erects an altar
To Silvanus the invincible,lord of the woods,
For granting him a titanic boar
Of exceptional spirit and quality,
Which so many before him had failed to bag.
Cernunnos watches all from the trees.
The invaders’ coins shine like new moons,
Fairy-horses galloping from hand to hand.
Farting soldiers wipe their arses with moss in the latrines.
The barracks whores are quickly given nicknames.
In far-off Rome, the Emperor frets
That his famous regiments will be ruined
By dice games, drinking and the pox.
Without frontiers, without limits,
There could be no civilisation.
Let wolves and bears retreat
From the straight stones of Rome!
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