The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
That suede ferments is not at all well known
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum