The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum