I met a traveler from a new land
Who said: Once a nation now tumbled down
from within. Their potentiate, on the sand,
Half stoned, a grinning face lies, whose old frown,
And wrinkled lip, and cruel cold hand,
Tell that its author well his hatreds led
Which yet still survive, would do their devilish things,
To any people who allow it and the advisors who it fed:
And on the teleprompter these words appear:
“My name is Barack Obama, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Americans, and despair!”
Nothing inside the old border remains, cept the decay
Of that colossal nation, once fruitful and boundless
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
(apologies to Shelley)