1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14the best of all things to an end must come
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