1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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