1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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