My wrinkled name is Ozymandias

And I met the mighty,

whose boundless visage stretch the level desert.

Tell them well, those which look in trunkless sands,

that ye frown on these words and sneer on the land,

and that the King read nothing and Kings said things:

these appear near the remains from vast decay,

beside them works that sunk far away

fed on lies that yet survive.

A stamped traveler

who shattered my heart and passions

mocked an antique sculptor -

its lifeless hand on the lip of sand,

and cold pedestal on the wreck of command

and Despair! -

Two round legs

and half of a lone colossal stone

stand bare.