The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum