1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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