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I met a roadie from an ancient band
Who said:—"Two fat and drunken legs did groan
Staggering through the blizzard toward the can,
And attached a bloated corpse, whose dim frown
And slurring lips no known words do command.
Should you see the bastard, alive or dead,
Barking at the moon or beheading things,
Say 'You're on in ten, or so Sharon said'.
Cos' on the marquee your name does appear:
For you are Ozymandias, he who sings.
Keep performing those old songs, but despair!
Nothing catchy remains: So add delay
And a choir to that wreck, tuneless and bare,
'Til the record sales do dwindle away."