The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The Turks said just take anything you please
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum