To Pair, in Latin (Copulate)

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
In the villa on the Palatine Hill,
106 BC, Marcus Tullius Cicero
sits at his table, stylus in hand.
The waxed tablet gleams under olive oil lamp,
smooth beechwood frame, beeswax poured fresh that dawn.
He etches the verb: copulare.
To bind, to join, like threads in a toga's hem.
Not yet the word we whisper,
but the grammar of connection,
from copula, the link in every sentence.

[Chorus]
Copulare, to pair in Latin light,
to fasten what was separate,
like Cicero's words in De Oratore,
55 BC, where he wrote:
'Nihil est tam incredibile quod non dicendo fiat probabile.'
Nothing so unbelievable that speech can't make it true,
joined to favor, copuletur favori.
The verb binds ideas, souls, even bodies later.
Mrs. Patterson nods, her spectacles fogging slightly,
she loves the grammar, the clean lines of conjugation.

[Verse 2]
The room smells of parchment and ink,
sharp tang at 15 degrees Celsius,
early spring draft through the open shutter.
A loaf of panis on the side,
dipped in vinum, diluted for focus.
The stylus scratches: copulo, copulas, copulat.
Present tense, active voice.
In medieval scripts, they shied away,
preferring coniungere for marriage vows,
fearing the word's slow shift to flesh.
But here, in wax, it's innocent,
a tool for orators, not lovers yet.

[Bridge]
Oh, waxed tablet, you hold the gaps too.
Unnamed schoolboys in villas like this,
their teachers reciting verbs at dawn.
No diaries left, no letters of how they laughed
at copulare's double edge emerging.
But Lewis and Short, 1879,
define it still: to couple, unite.
The small strange fact: scribes avoided it in church,
for shame baked into the root.

[Verse 3]
Kiki at the workbench now,
engraving copulare into coral stone.
From Rome to here, the word binds us.
Mrs. Patterson sips tea, appreciates the lesson,
'How precise,' she says, 'the Latin bind.'
The candle flickers, same as Cicero's lamp.

[Outro]
Copulare, the join that lasts.