From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum