Mists linger on the corners of the city where he lived,
Rolling in and round and clinging on,
Legacy of fog where Wilde was wont to drift,
Swirling still though lighter in its form.
Name and shame, the fashion, presented on a plate
Indecency, too gross for social graces,
Law, though now repealed, belies the want of hate.
Clear the names, no blame upon their faces.