1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
← OPEN dataBase