1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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