Your indiscretions are a national sport
You are half-Socialist, half-rock star
Your dirty linen was wrung-out in court
You had your silk ties and your perma-tan
You played the court room, an alpha male
Wilde had his collars of astrakhan
You both had followers – you your wife, Gail
That you could take on the establishment
Was a delusion of your stubborn pride
A cell door closes on your predicament
Sealing your fate, a few weeks spent inside
Wandsworth and Reading broke poor Wilde, it's said
Let's hope that you fare better, and stay red
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