Saturday, August 04, 2007

To Oscar Wilde

Fair aesthete;
Born of Narcissus and pride.
I defy thy convention,
As this piece I write.
I wreak insult on thy craft;
I make it look weak and trite.
The only honour I bestow on thee,
Is the lie in the third line.

But how else, I ask in humility,
Do I leave thy genius unscathed
From the aspersions of naivety?
If I were to imitate thee,Blasphemy it would be!
I'd rather seek refuge in this quaint little skill,
The art of the insult; thy boots are not for me to fill!

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