The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum