Ode To A White Elephant (Poetry)

I think that I shall never see
poor Shelley’s fountain flowing free —
this sculpted artifice in stone
remains, perversely, dry as bone,
an outsized ball perched on a stand
and all for just one hundred grand.

Sublime, the scene the poet saw,
his vision without dam or flaw,
his words cascade, their rhythms swim —
a purer monument to him
than this sad bauble, vulgar, queer —
a cow-pat-covered tin foil sphere.

Belated orb by commerce bought,
you’ve proved a ghastly afterthought
and Shelley, like each passer-by.
might gaze perplexed, or heave a sigh
for all that money rashly spent —
you’re neither use nor ornament!