1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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