I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said: “Six small and crackling speakers of plastic

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered ipod lies, whose scroll wheel,

And cracked screen, and battery of little charge,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

“Our name is Toto, band of bands:

Listen on our works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that pocket-sized wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.