Earth Song

I met a pop kid from the streamed age
He sang: Two vast and trunkless legs of gold
Stand half sunk in the Thames. Near them on the bank,
A cracked, scarred mask stares, whose skin tone
And sculptured nose and smile of twisted command
Tell that its surgeon well those requests misheard
Which features still survive, stamped on this lifeless scene,
Amongst uniformed fragments, the gloved hand sparkles.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Michael Jackson, King of Pop:
Look on my back catalogue, the music , dance!'
Nothing beside remains, except self-indulgent decay
Of a once colossal work, timeless now overplayed,
The single and album pop charts disappear in a land far, far away.