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Oh Oscar why did they treat you so bad?
And wasn’t Lord Alfred Douglas a cad
For leaving you stranded all by yourself
Sad as a book without reader or shelf?
When the gavel came down smack on the table
And six prosecutors clad in their sable
Robes shook their wigs and pointed at you
Twisting your words to make them untrue
You hung down your head and felt so much shame
—You who had climbed the summits of fame!—
That you were just ready to give up your name
And set everything you stood for aflame
My dear Oscar Wilde you were so good with words
But not good enough to counter the herds
Of ignorant stupid prejudiced haters
Who parade as men but who are just praters
Ready to condemn anyone they can
For veering from what is considered a man
But these so well-dressed educated people
Were not even fit to paint a church steeple
Let alone stand in the same room as you
As you lay on your deathbed deep in some rue
Fighting in Paris with ugly wallpaper
All drab and lit up by a single taper
But what seems above all not so absurd
Is that you in the end would have the last word
And the idiots who once called you a kook
Shamefully and forever live on in your book