1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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