I met a traveller from a recreational land,
Who said “Two vast and plushy legs of felt
Stand in the desert…. Near them, in the dirt,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose grin,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold comedy,
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 Mus Autem, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and giggle!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level dirt stretches far away.

Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.

(with apologies to P.B. Shelley)

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