1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
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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