The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
Soliloquies predict great things old chum