The Country Mice

Last visit to the cemetery. I promise.

Now, I like to think of myself as literary and literate as the next average gal walking down the street. I read my Chaucer, my Shakespeare, my Beowulf, my bp nichol, et cetera!

I also read James Joyce, Dylan Thomas, yada yada.

And I read Oscar Wilde along with the rest of my classmates.

But did I looooove the guy? I did not.

Yes, yes, tortured soul, brilliant writer, outcast, wit, talk of the town, penniless at death. I get all that.

But kiss marks on his tomb? Ick. I’m sorry, literati of the world, but I don’t get it.

And obviously the graveyard cleaner-uppers don’t get it either.

Sheesh.