pharaoh is very wet

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 shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd 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.

~Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandias, 1818.

Putting aside my deep and abiding devotions to the sonnet form(s), and to poems about hubris and time and ruins and ancient things and empires and kings, and also Egyptology, I have a confession: the only reason I care at all about Adrian Veidt is because I love this poem. But because I love this poem, I kind of care about Adrian Veidt. Perversely. Poetry and science fiction graphic novels: two great tastes that taste great together. I kind of want to go to the British Museum now.