He bent right down to pick up his valise
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The understanding critic firstly sees
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum