The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The Turks said just take anything you please
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb