1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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