Who said: Two thousand vast and windowless lumps of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visa card lies, whose front
And wrinkled strip sneers of cold payment demand
Tell that its sucker well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless bills,
That hand that shopped them and the bank that fed.
And on the windscreen those words appear:
“my name is Ozzy Man me arse, kingpin of booms:
Look at my books, ye Investors, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundary wall-less and bare,
The lone already levelled sands stretch far away.
