The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
And let you off from your opinions glum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum