The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum