1The wild horse champs the Parthenon’s top frieze
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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