Weirdelves wrote:I've been to all three
Which one was the most impressive?
Weirdelves wrote:I've been to all three
Wanbli wrote:I am pretty sure the whole song is a tribute to Alan Moore's "The Watchmen"- in particular the character of Ozymandias
IN Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows:—
"I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone,
"The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
"The wonders of my hand."— The City's gone,—
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.
We wonder,—and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.
Beneath a patch of grass, her
bones the old Dutch master hid.
butterbean wrote:So... could she be saying Sapokanikan? Map o' Sapokanikan? Now that I've seen that word, it's all I can hear - anyone else, or have I just gone 'round the bend?
Jordan~ wrote:the reround the rerounders bit...
The cause is Ozymandian
and the causes they died for are lost in the idling bird calls
This plaque [...] near 95th Street in Central Park, is certainly noticeable and must mystify the joggers who pass on their daily rounds. Who was John Purroy Mitchel and why did he get such an elaborate personal monument?
Go tell the one that I love to remember and hold me
The cause is Ozymandian.
The map of Sapokanikan
is sanded and beveled,
the land lorn and leveled
by some unrecorded and powerful hand
which plays along the monument
and drums upon a plastic bag.
The brave men and women, so dear to God
and famous to all of the ages' rag,
sang:
"Do you love me?
Will you remember?"
The snow falls above me.
Around the hand, the rerounders. (?)
The event is in the hand of God.
Beneath a patch of grass, her
bones the old Dutch master hid
while, elsewhere, Tobias
and the angel disguise
what the scholars surmised was a mother and kid
interred with other daughters
in dirt in other potters' fields.
Above them, parades
mark the passing of days
through parks where pale colonnades arch in marble and steel,
where all of the twenty-thousand attending your foot fall
and the causes they died for are lost in the idling bird calls,
and the records they left are cryptic at best,
lost in obsolescence.
The text will not yield, nor x-ray reveal
with any fluorescence
where the hand of the master begins and ends.
I fell, I tried to do well but I won't be.
Go tell the one that I love to remember and hold me.
I call, I call for the doctor
but the snow swallows me whole with ole Florry Walker
and the event lives only in print.
He said:
"It's alright,"
and "It's all over now,"
and boarded the plane,
his belt unfastened;
the boy was known to show unusual daring.
And, called a “boy”,
this alderman confounding Tammany Hall
(In whose employ
King Tamanend himself preceded John’s fall).
So we all raise a standard
to which the wise and honest soul may repair,
to which a hunter,
a hundred years from now, may look and despair
and see with wonder
the tributes we have left to rust in the parks,
swearing that our hair stood on end
to see John Purroy Mitchel depart
for the Western front where my work might count.
O mercy, O God!
I will the hunter to decipher the stone
and what lies under. The city is gone.
So look and despair.
Look and despair.
is sanded and bevelled
the land lone and levelled
where all of the twenty-thousand attending your foot fall
to which the wise and honest so may repair
O mercy (?) to go out.
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