1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
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
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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