1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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