1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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