1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The genealogist with field and fess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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