The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
That suede ferments is not at all well known
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum