Long ago I've heard it said
That all the highways lead to Rome
Centurions with helmet heads
returning to their happy homes

Beyond the fires burning bright
the faces seem to come and go
Where Nero plays his violin
to the patrons of the picture show

Ptolemaeus sits upon my lawn
wondering where the stars have gone
Looking at the crescent moon
as lions roam the avenues

and me I'm halfway past my prime
whiskers just like porcupines
But I was old before my time
In Cannae where the sun don't shine