I in the back of the garden, the last of the gods, in a corner,

Ineptly formed, must I stand. Evil the inroads of time.

Cucumber vines grow entwining about this primeval lingam,

Cracking it almost in two under the weight of the fruit.

Faggots are heaped all about me against the cold of the winter,

Which I so hate for the crows settling then down on my head,

Which they befoul very shamefully. Summer's no better: the servants

Empty their bowels and show insolent, naked behinds.

Filth, above and below! I was clearly in danger of turning

Into filth myself, toadstool, rotten wood!

Now, by your efforts, O noblest of artists, I shall recover

With fellow gods my just place. And it's no more than my due.

Jupiter's throne, so dishonestly won, it was I who secured it:

Color and ivory, marble and bronze, not to mention the poems.

Now, all intelligent men look upon me in kindness. They like to

Form their own image of me, just as the poet has done.

Nor do the girls take offense when they see me—by no means the matrons.

None finds me ugly today, though I am monstrously strong.

Half a foot long, as reward, your glorious rod (dear poet)

Proudly shall strut from your loins, when but your dearest commands,

Nor shall your member grow weary until you've enjoyed the full dozen

Artful positions the great poet Philainis describes.