The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
The best of all things to an end must come