I met a blowhard from an unhinged land,
A nasty, blustery, mendacious clown,
Who egged on malice, packing every stand
With gaping suckers, arms aloft. His frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Inflame his visage, hair bizarrely red.
His infantile slams, incoherent strings,
Deride elected stupids, till now well fed.
Behold the boastful, fascistic prayer:
‘My name is Lord Trumpismo, king of kings:
Look on my riches, ye Mighty, and despair!
I, alone, save all from doom and decay.”
Thus this colossal demagogue lays bare
How reason and wisdom are cast away.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”