1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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