The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum