The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum