1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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