The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
In purest cradles tha's how they behave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
In Indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The best of all things to an end must come