Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The genealogist with field and fess
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum