1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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