I met a traveller from an antique board,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the catalog. . . . Near them, on the thread,
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 Aysh-El-Ji, Fucker of Dogs;
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 onahole threads stretch far away.