The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The genealogist with field and fess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum