1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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