Classic Poem

Twas here they strangled Vercingetorix.
Here the Numidian tyrant, as the knot
Drew tighter, rolled his eyeballs scarlet-shot,
Shivered, and died, for all his politics.
And there are other names you ought to mix
With these, to show us that you know a lot,
But which unhappily you have forgot.
A memory will play a man such tricks,

Dull little guide who tread the Sacred Street,
Lying about your ancestors. God knows
His purposes. The she-wolf, I suppose,
Had she foreseen you and your shrugs and grins,
Forth from the suckling lips had drawn the teat,
And breakfasted in quiet on the twins.