1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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