The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The understanding critic firstly sees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum