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
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum