1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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