The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The best of all things to an end must come