The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come