The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum