Oh, the glories of Victoriana !
What are we to believe, that they were all hearts and nosegays
Scattered, sprinkling on their history’s hour.
Or pikes and pickets in remembrance of the need to slaughter.
We don’t, can’t know them now.
All we can see is their residue, iron fencing, dried blossoms,
Hide-bound morals that secreted sin behind each bush.
Up close the flatness of each face, the paleness of each smile
Let’s us know, it’s not the time or place to live.
Chose  instead any era, any combination of times and dates
As preferred.
Barring dystopia, I’ll take that first.