The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
And let you off from your opinions glum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?