From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum