I met a traveler from a pungent state
Sit in the rubbish. . .Near them, far from great
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose dome
And furrowed brow, and choice to favor those of near Ivy League gait
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, next to these lifeless poachers
The drink that fed them, the heart that probably exploded from the drink;
And on the useless plates, these words appear:
My name is OzymandiArmas, Coach of Coaches
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!