1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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