هجَوتُكَ لا حاجَةً لي إِلَي

كَ شهرتُ لَها قَدرَكَ المُهمَلا

Your satire, I have no need for

My fame, insignificant to it

ولَكِن تغرَّبَ شِعري عَليَّ

وَتاهَ فأحبَبتُ أَن يَخجَلا

But my poetry has grown strange to me

And gone astray, so I wished it ashamed

فَتِه يا ابنَ نَصرٍ عَلى سالِفَيكَ

فقَد صارَ آخرُكُم أوَّلا

Wander, O son of Nasr, over your ancestors

For the last of you has become the first