Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The best of all things to an end must come