The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum