What was that nondescript street, Nebraska street, sweet H-E left behind? To go to Finishing School, to finish school, to get her diploma, her dip in Sonoma, or Sonora, or a goldfish bowl, a hen in a rainbow, a sonnet in a bonnet, a love refined?

Oscar had a good woman, name of Constance, two fine as a fiddle, sons, anon, singing in an ethereal key, son song, and, though Irish, was the true prince, prints at the crime scene, Prince of Wales. Sons.

Sons of Wales, sons of Prince of Wales Island, not latitude, nor longitude, long legs with a hippy, hippy shake, Swabbie, Swansea, sea of green, sea of man, Isle of Man, coitus interupptis, rest, full arrest, contented sit at the long table of 9 East 71st Street, where the “teach” — his crowd so pretty– danced, a condiment.