1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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