Salve, nec minimo puella naso
nec bello pede nec nigris ocellis
nec longis digitis nec ore sicco
nec sane nimis elegante lingua,
decoctoris amica Formiani.
ten Provincia narrat esse bellam?
tecum Lesbia nostra comparatur?
o saeclum insapiens et infacetum!
Salving my neck's minimal pulse in the noise
my neck below a petty niggardly cello is
long necked and the digits knead sore ichor
"What is sane or elegant about language?" says neck
forming an amicable doctoring tone
"In these ten provinces, the story has always been war.."
Tecumseh lets his heavy bean hang as the nostrum is applied,
beseeching better words from his insapient face's tome.
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Irrony Observes The Earthing.