My bardie, he don't talk sweet
He ain't got much to say
But he loves me, loves me, loves me
I know that he loves me anyway
And maybe he don't dress fine
But I don't really mind
Let's hear it for the bard
Let's give the bard a hand
Let's hear it for my bardie
You know you gotta understand
Oh, maybe he's no Romeo
But he's my lovin' one-man show
Oh, whoa-oa-oa
Let's hear it for the bard
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 shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
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 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.”