1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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