I was a traveler from an antique landAnd saw a big-ass trunkless head of stone
Stand upon a museum shelf. On the stand
Half drunk, a worn-down visage lies, that frown
And herpes'd lip and sneer of cold command
Tell those ideas of what a sculptor dread
Yet still survive be it among these things,
My hand doth mock him for I know he's dead
And on his pedestal faint words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings,
Look on my bowling, John Erb, and despair!'
Nothing around remains. Round the display
Of that olde bowling wreck ancient and bare,
I'll travel to much better lanes today.
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