I prefer Saki to Wilde
like a gleeful little child
too busy throughout his day
with the games he likes to play
to eat but in little bites
the sour-sweet dessert delights,
each story packing a punch
that does enough as a lunch
for an intellect in need
of some nourishment to feed,
and, besides, he does not cloy,
being subtle, this choirboy
whose wit prefers not to preach,
but seeks with humor to teach
lessons acerbic, yet smooth,
like a tonic meant to soothe,
yet burns when it’s ingested
to purge someone phlegm-chested.
I hold nothing against Wilde
nor Dorian Gray, so styled
with wit as to be satire
of satire itself, a pyre
in which irony aflame
immolates the author ’s shame —
an enlightenment most quaint
despite its destructive taint
that hounded him in his life
and cost him his lovely wife.
But while both men have now won
readers generations on
and lived the same span of years
while closeted for their fears,
Saki died before such fame
could make or break his strange name.
A sniper ’s gun found him out
in the trenches, at a shout
to snuff out a cigarette
only to die himself, yet
even his death was satire —
for, ere the sniper did fire,
Saki sought to ward the eye
of Death, so none else might die,
but, in so doing, passed from
service, life, till kingdom come.
Saki fought and died in France,
enlisting despite the chance
of the combat and horror
well known in the First World War
whereas Wilde died destitute
in Paris, in ill repute,
not that I blame him for it
or for each close-minded Brit
that despised him for his book
or the astute views he took;
it is just that Saki knew
how to keep just out of view
(save when in a sniper ’s sight
in the early morning light),
but the point is simply this:
Saki did not take the piss.
He loved Britain, in his way,
and fought for it, till the day
he was laid to rest, at last,
which showed that his writing past
was love of life, of folly,
and though sharp, too, was jolly
and he critiqued Britain well
with the tales he had to tell,
proving satire is best done
of what you love most, or none,
for it is, otherwise, spite
and, so, propaganda —trite,
of little substance or worth,
and very little of mirth.
Sharp, witty, and full of love:
thus does writing rise above
the pettiness it records
and thus deserves great rewards.
After all, life is a jest
told with great love, if told best.
Tangleroot And Tressknot 