(with apologies to the great, prophetic 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 upon these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal, these words appear: ‘My name is Trump, 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.”