1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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