1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown

5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14the best of all things to an end must come