The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
The best of all things to an end must come