Furius, you who haven't got a slave
no piggy bank, not a bug or spider or heat;
but you certainly have a father and stepmother
whose teeth can even chew sand.
It's delightful for you, with your father
and with your father's wooden wife -
no wonder, since you all do well with everything,
you endure nicely; you fear nothing
not flame, nor total ruin,
not evil deeds or slander's lies,
or other chance of dangers.
But really, are your bodies drier than bone,
or than anything (if there is anything)
made even drier, by sun, cold and starvation?
So why wouldn't everything be well and happy for you?
You are without sweat, spit, snot or runny nose.
To this neatness add an even greater neatness
because your asshole is cleaner than a salt dish
(not ten shits in a whole year
and they're harder than a bean or little pebbles)
and if you touched it and probed it with your hands
you could never slip a finger into it.
Furius, don't despise these lovely comforts,
or think them worthless;
And as for that grand you always beg?
Leave off with a hundred.
You're happy enough.