1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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