1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum