The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum