The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
His toga rumpled high above his knees
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb