1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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