The Poet whom British haters reviled
has, somewhere not that far from Paris died:
the still great, but now broken, Oscar Wilde.
He, lover of young, pretty men defied
the expectations of society,
whose thoughtless prejudices always are
present to interfere with buoyant love.
On you, the literary irony
is not lost: you sign your poems as "K. R."
by choice. But English bastards, to their shame,
had, by force, stripped poor Oscar of his name
(a theft no one bothers to recompense):
thus, "Reading Gaol," as title, stands above
the penal designation, C. 3. 3.
To Oscar's sadly quiet funeral,
his life's love, Alfred "Bosie" Douglas, came:
his sorrow seemed to be a real pretense;
Too soon, his accusations will commence;
too soon, hw will declare his many woes
(according to the old Queensbury Rule,
litigously fine whines, shrieked by a fool).
Before your Orthodox icons, you pray
that Christ will grant Oscar a blest repose,
and give great comfort to his needy soul.
You rest assured---for that is Jesus' way.
Starward*Led