Daily column.

I met a traveller from an antique land, 

Who said—“A busted column for the yard 

Waits for the junk man. . . . Near it, on the ground, 

A fat flat black matte shadow lies, whose frown, 

Apparent in its sneering voice, and the sound

Tell disgust with the sculptor of this awful shard 

Here broken on the dirt, with hollow core, 

A shattered garden stand in Doric form; 

And on the pedestal, these words appear: 

My name is Pationias, King of Lawns; 

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! 

Broken into bits. Someone tapped an ash 

Upon that cheesy table, trayless, bare, 

And saw it shatter into useless trash.” 

[With no apologies to P. B. Shelley! None!]