1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3replies like this the dumbstruck brain may tease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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