Annals of Volusius, given how truly you suck,
I call on you to discharge my girl’s vow,
since she vowed to the sanctity of Venus
that if I were restored to her love
and called a truce on our war of iambics
she would give to the god of fire
the most epic writings of the worst
of poets, to be burnt by the wood of some
unlucky tree - these epic works
being the poems she saw as the worst poems
for the sake of her frippery vow. 
Now, then, O Goddess born of sea-foam,
with temples in wooded Idalium
and barren Urium, worshipped in Ancona
and reedy Cnidus, in Amathunta and Golgos,
and the sea ports of Illyria where all the best trades
are made, accept this as the redeeming the vow
according to the contract, if not too inept
in its wit, and without further ado
let’s get you, Annals of Volusius, into
the fire, given how truly you suck.