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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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