based on "Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley (see below)
I met an artist with a unique hand,
Who said—“Contrast of colors I make my own
As sand in desert...” Wear them, Hope for man,
Half shrunk, ringspun cotton bright dyed; the crown
And twinkling eye, smugness just so, off-hand
Tell that its artist well those passions read
Which shan't survive, stenciled on ramps and wings,
The hand that mocks them: Obey Giant head.
And on some caption, what words appear,
“Shepard Fairey, Lord of the Flies and Kings,
Look on his Works, ye Banksy, and despair!”?
Nothing remains beside urban decay
And that iconic Face, graphic, made bare
That lone rises to bat others away.
Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
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 Ozymandias, King of Kings;
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.
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