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I met a backpacker from Irak 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 fled:
And on the pedestal these scribbles leer:
“My name is Georgie Dubb, king of kings:
Look on my goofs, ye Mighty, and get fear!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that dwarfish wreck, as meaningless as beer,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.