I met a traveler in a tiled land Who said—two rusted pipes, still proud, remain Half-sunk within a bowl of lime and sand. Beside them, cold—porcelain fragments lain. The frown. The tankless pride. The flusher’s sneer, Tell that its maker well those passions read— Which yet survive, though all is dry and bare: The hand that pulled. The bowl that bled. And on the plaque, these words appear: “My name is Flushmandias, King of Flow. Look on my gallons, ye Thoughtful… and despair.” Nothing beside remains. Around the wreck Of that colossal flush—tankless and stark— The Whisper Valve still hums… in quiet, still air.