The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The understanding critic firstly sees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
It's one of many horrid happenings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The genealogist with field and fess
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum