The minutes had come round, They had drilled like platoons, Marching up and down The parade ground, And scarce few had paused to weep He had died peacefully in his sleep. The holy terror didn't shock him anymore, And since retirement, He'd lived off the fat of his contradictions, And kept in the bank a safe deposit of blood and gore (The last vestiges of his crumbled down convictions). The minutes of his military life marched past in single file And at his orders, they rallied to his side, Filling him with dread, Fought bravely against the powerful doubts That came suddenly in his head. He relished the four o'clock mock-executions, The miraculous births and deaths of striking elocutions Which sprang forth from the distraught down trodden poor None of whom were worth fighting for. He choose to ignore the educational institutions, Where raving mad radicals concocted Their strange behavior and clever revolutions. He found exciting the folly and the fighting Of small minds at war. He loved the wild look That came over his face at six o'clock, When he read from his biography. He would sit in his rocking chair and rock, Smoking a cigar, and when dark had begun to fall Outside, he would gaze over his shoulder at the clock, And it was the only time he smiled, When he cried so loud the neighbors could hear 'There's no hope for Oscar Wilde.' He hated civilian life. It was cruel, harsh punishment. He felt exiled. He peeled an orange with his knife, Drank too much, beat his wife. At odd moments, interviewed by the press, He commended the Romans for their brutality, Loathed the Chinese plurality. He preferred his shame stirred, not mixed, And worried about his complexion, Which appeared upon inspection Pale, drab. His eyebrows, bushy, somewhat untidy. He was opposed to nuclear disarmament. Peace was not so high and mighty, He believed the Japanese were sons of bitches Who burned their sirloin steaks like witches. And at his funeral, the rifles fired off, The military minutes marched round And at his graveside gave pause, The trumpets shrill sad cry boasted Of his many victories, without mention Of his many flaws.© Ernest Slyman
(originally appeared in Grape Poetry)