1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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