He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the auzure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Into a Nike shoe his foot rots;
A shoe made in a factory by little tots,
Underpaid non-union slaves
Pieces of feet upon the waves.
-Tennyson in the modern age