Grint

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the dry dry desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and full mustache of command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the hat of red;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Mario, Plumber of Plumbers;
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. Wahoo.