The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The Turks said just take anything you please
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The genealogist with field and fess
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
And let you off from your opinions glum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum