Classic Poem

There 's no chance to escape from the kissers of Rome,
They meet you and cross you and follow you home,
They will hurry in hundreds from every place,
No salve-besmeared lips and no pimple-decked face,
Sore cheek or raw chin, will preserve you from those,
Though an icicle click at the end of your nose.
Be it cold, be it hot, or whatever betide,
They will steal the best kiss you had kept for your bride;
You can wrap up your head in a hood of stout leather,
Or curtain your litter—that fails altogether;
Through smallest of crevices kissers can crawl.
Will the dignified consul escape? Not at all.
No, the tribune and he, though the lictors resist
With rod and with voice, will be certainly kissed;
If you sit in the lofty tribunal and there
You administer law in the emperor's chair,
You may think, it may be, that you're safe for the time—
But no; to that altitude kissers can climb.
Nor is fever—or mourning—a valid excuse;
You can swim out to sea, but you'll find it no use;
Is there then no escape? Yes, one chance may exist:
Make friends with the kissers—you'll cease to be kissed.