The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum