1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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