1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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