1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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