The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum