The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
And let you off from your opinions glum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb