"Two shirts and atrophied legs of a washed-up boomer shock-jock

Stand in Long Island. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk an HGH-misshapen visage lies, whose pock marks,

And pissy eyes, and sneer of egg-induced anal orgasming,

Tell that its sculptor well those Twitter meltdowns read

Which yet survive, time-stamped on these lifeless things,

The online terrorists that mocked them, and the Nana that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

'My name is Cumia, King of Kings;

You have no effect on our lives, ye mutants, I'm still hilarious!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal faggot, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands of obscurity stretch far away.”