1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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