In the case of Oscar Wilde, we’re talking late nineteenth century.

A lot of the beautiful, twittering, hedgerow glittering, heath heather love,

For urban was concentrated — in British rolling with it, hitting it, slowing it, painting with it,

Was Oscar Irish?

Was St. Patrick?

We’re the snakes of Ireland banned to Heathrow, to go, short shrift, amid a bliss of drift, a ringing, a care, a breath of fresh air,

Oscar could not fly around, and thus, often mistaken as an early aire of earnest red blare, an earl of red square, hang in there,

We are the snakes of Ireland, very, very, sexy, as a power and right of man. As a London, as a fog, as a mix, quick, all fog? As a slime, as a dock brined, as a dock of barnacle– go get your own dang limited hangout, and you are hungry?