1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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