1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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