The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum