Oscar has problems
He sits perched on my shoulder
Sharing complaints
Reading Gaol forever his muse
I am the company to his misery boarder
Forever the champion of his cause
A diseased disorder requiring surgical intervention
An incision just above the bone of contention
But a bit lower than the heart of creation
Oscar Wilde has problems
His flamboyant dash a question mark
Obliterating my feeble attempt
To best his finest morbid hour
His attention to attention to detail refined
By a life lived completely confined
The penniless beggar with silken empty pockets
Died in a fever pitch of agony exposed and open
Its origin in the ecstasy of just one more romp
The use of language is exquisite! I could savor and dine on every single line. Yum!
Reply to this
This is a great poem, Val, one of your best.
Reply to this
Love that bone of contention line
Reply to this