The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum