I meet a wanderer from a newfound land
Who said: Two small and shameless feet of gold
Stand in a swamp. Near them, in the muck,
Half-drained, a broken face lies, whose leer,
And frowning lip, and sneer of incoherent demand,
Tell that its unpaid architect well those feelings read,
Which still survive, printed on this orange thing,
The tiny hands that mocked them and the hair long-dead:

And on the pedestal these words (the best words) appear:
‘I am Trumpymandias, businessman of businesses,
Look on my structures, nasty woman, and be sad!’
Nothing nearby is left. Round the border wall
Of that rigged ruin, big-league and huge,
The sick and scattered weeds grow far and away.