Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum