1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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