Classic Poem

'T WAS no rude ditcher made me with rough knife,
The steward's work am I and true to life.
For Hilarus upon these smiling hills
The richest farm in Caere's village tills.
I seem not made of wood, so clear I'm shown;
Nor shall my emblem to the fire be thrown.
For look, this cypress phallus deathless stands,
As though it came from Phidias' own hands.
So, neighbours, to Priapus' honour pay,
And from these fourteen acres keep away.