Oh what a soliciting our August performs; it feels like a liquid nitrogen even in July.
Clenched are his slow jaws, as if he awaits napalm burning the empty streets he rides,
As if he awaits a hundreds of torches of Tacitus on the sides of his enlightening path.
Oh, with such care and handy precaution August says “you can not pass”,
August’s pretorians let his subjects choose their future with the unappealable “conclude”.
The Princeps’s mouth is a thin line under "after me at least a flood".