The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
It's one of many horrid happenings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?