Of thespians, Leo’s Commander-in-Chief.
His treatments show Horace no plush toy from Steiff.
Yet, sadly, he lacks his C. K. Scott
Moncrieff
to decipher his tales for the Mont Blanc massif,
perhaps with a "lost on the ice" leitmotif.
All erstwhile attempts have, en fin,
come to grief,
as unfulfill'd readers exclaim, “Where’s
the beef…?”
Nevertheless, it’s my fervent belief
--
and, I'm quick to admit, this all comes as
relief –
that soon shall arrive gli autor’
with a sheaf
of splendid translations which turn a new
leaf
in the book of the spread of the
Rumpole debrief.
(A further admission: I wholly would
lief
if these versions be render'd by Ciaran O’Keeffe.
Consider my verses your aperitif.)
