carl's looking smug about something. he hands me a sheet of paper more or less as soon as i walk through the door.
not only that: this is a sheet of paper with words on it. bloody hell carl, things are looking up mate.
i scan the page. looks like a poem.
looks like a good poem at that.
i'm no expert but this is a decent bit of writing in anyone's book.

i read the first four lines ...

... Like burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed
Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;
Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head ...

... look up at carl, who's looking as happy as i can ever remember him looking.

i read on ...
"And, the slight lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced ..."

i stop.

"carl?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't write this did you?"
"Eh?" he frowns, appalled at my suggestion
"This poem, it's not yours is it?"
"It is."
"Who wrote this Carl?"
"i wrote it."
"carl. mate. what do you take me for? Who wrote it?"
carl visibly slumps ... "Oscar Wilde."
"I can't believe you."
"You forced my arm"

these are the people i have to deal with in my life on a daily basis.