Every year, on the same day in January,
Devoted necromancers bearing champagne
Gather in this freezing cemetery,
Abetting the city in a PR campaign.
Reading your work with affected countenance,
As if they had some clue what it really means,
Living every day in squalor and indigence,
Languishing among the Philistines,
All drink their bubbly in blissful ignorance.
Now that you're dead, the world gives you your due.
Perhaps in this though there is some symmetry.
Of all poets, who was better equipped than you,
Edgar, to appreciate that sort of irony?
