1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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