Traveler

I met a [[traveller]] from an antique land,-

-Well, alright, he was more of a tourist, really. Real nice chap, a bit loud for my taste, flew in just the day before. But I can't quite say I met a sight-seer with a selfie stick, now can I? [[What I was saying was,]]

I met a traveller from an [[antique land,]]

Er, right, I guess you could say it was more of a flea market in Cardiff. A land of antiques, perhaps? He runs a stall on Sundays, has a spectacular collection of 19th century lamps. You should take your mum sometime, I bet she'd love them. But, yes, [[as I was saying,]]

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two [[vast and trunkless legs of stone]] Stand in the desert. . . .

What, the legs? Well, listen, why this Welshman with a thing for creative illumination was in the desert to begin with, I've no bleedin' idea, so is it really that much of a stretch to say he found some torso-less rock gams? But really, you're interrupting quite a bit. [[The story goes,]]

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,

What is it now? The visage? There were the vast and stoney legs, yes. Yes, and the head. Well, it's a large head. Are you saying you can accept the existence of some rocky chap's calves being left in the desert, but now a sandy head is too much for your imagination? Well, I don't know who carried off the middle bits. The Welshman didn't say. Look, [[the important thing is,]]

I mean, sure, we could go on speculating as much as you please about the artistic integrity of the sculptor, now couldn't we? You're just going to have to either choose to believe this particular sculptor of this particular sandy tart was a decent fellow, or keep questioning his every motive and ruin the Welshman's story! Who gives a flying fig if it's apocryphal! There's just no pleasing you, is there? ... [[Would you just let me finish?]]

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!

Ozymandias isn't that unusual a name! My mum had a cousin named Ozymandias. Well, we called him Ozzy. Look, you're ignoring the important bits! This trunkless gent was a real big shot! And [[that's not even the best part-]]

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.]]

... What. You don't like it? Do you doubt my Welsh friend- er, acquaintance? What do you mean? Well clearly, whoever's made off with the bloke's torso took his other things, too. What part of "lone and level sands" don't you get? It *was too* a real desert! You think they have boundless beaches in Cardiff? ... You know what? Fine. You're impossible. [[Here it is, then.]]

I once bumped into a Welshman who sells vintage lamps on the weekends, And he said—“But didn't you know, stone thighs just pop up in the desert! And also Giant angry heads, if you know where to look - I found the same bloke's noggin Buried nose-deep next to 'em, and cor, He did seem awful nasty, but who can really say because Who knows if the sculptor was an ass or not? Either way, He sure left his mark on this rocky bloke, Who, again, let the record show, may or may not be a clod; And his half-head and loose stone legs came with a warning label: Hi, I'm Ozzy, maybe an okay guy; Someone took all my things and also my chest and pelvis! Nothing else is there because *that's what a desert is*, So now it's just him and his craggy gams and sandy nose and the word of An untrustworthy Welshman with a passion for illumination. There. I hope you're happy, because I am *never* telling you a bedtime story again.