An exaggerated translation of Catullus 7
Just how many kisses would it take to satisfy my insatiable lips?
Let me ponder.
How many grains of sand are there on the sweaty coast of the Cotes d’Azur, stretching from the tomb of Paul Valéry all the way to St Tropez, where the grils are almost as sexy as you are?
You ask again?
Let me wonder.
How many stars are there at night, that watch over the hidden loves of lascivious boys and girls?
I don’t know how many, exactly, but even a similarly astronomical number wouldn’t even come close to satisfying me, your mad lover.
(It also has the added benefit of being too big for our busybodies to count, and too unreal for incels to curse…)
