I met a traveller from a land of over-priced antiques, possibly Cotuit

Who said: “Two vast and trunkless arms of stone developed by years of one-armed push-ups
Lie in the asphaltt . . . Near them, on the median,
Half covered with graffiti, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read and knew enough not to take any pizza before his master’d had his fill
All that survives, stamped on these lifeless things,
The Brady that mocked them, and the needles that deflated:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Rogermandias, Commissioner of All:
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 shreds of paper from a half-assed, delusions and very expensive “investigation” stretch far away.”