My very name is pretty impressive, too. There was a time when pathetic underlings all over a large insurance company jumped when I said, “Make eight copies of this, please, and have them signed and on my desk in an hour!” and the Revenue Departments of *50 states* and the District of Columbia returned my phone calls promptly.
But how are the mighty fallen, two vast and trunkless legs are all that remain, and many young voices cry, “Why do I have to?!?” and Ubiquitous Anoreth, from far-off Seattle, snickers, “Bleepin’ FReep, Mom, will you just get over it already? And send me some Tropical Trail Mix, okay?”
(I could have rhymed all that, but there was only one glass of wine left in the bottle.)
Bottle?
"My name is Tax-Chick, Mother of Nine ...
Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair."
Hmmmmm ....
Somehow, that takes on a very different tone from that of poor departed Ozymandius' boast.