The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum