(Rest in Peace, Queen Elizabeth II)
Said the queen: Why yes tis I!
Her highness reigning from up high
So high above the London Eye
(A building greater than Versailles)
My day begins with my queen bed
Catching each last final zed
While the Sleep Girl holds my head
And re-fluffs my swan-down spread
I greet my day with scarce a yawn
Already bright before the dawn
I croquet upon the lawn
Then nibble on a French bonbon
‘The marmalade shan’t be pre-made!’
I decree while my hair they braid
‘I’d be chuffed to see it marinade!’
And munch while I chose who next to raid
And entertained by Baryshnikov
Underneath my large Van Gogh
I think, well I certainly have got the dosh
So, I tell that portrait, ‘bugger off!’
And then someone with a squint
Leaves and fetches me a Klimt
But still leaves me far from skint
Because after all I own the mint
After shopping I could kip
So, I ring for tea on which to sip
And a biscuit in which to dip
And a Rolls Royce in which to trip
And reclining in said royal carriage
Kept on call within my garage
I muse upon the royal marriage
And the new royals to disparage
And considering I’m already skiving
And nothing warrants my arriving
I tell the lad to just keep driving
And into London we start diving
Now, I do love the average Brit
But average blokes, I must admit
Seem to act like starking gits
And each day’s more barking twits
To start, some girl straight out of uni
Her make-up making her cartoony
And making every wazzock moony
Til she’s in the boot of some old loony
Pubs are next: we ought to check them
All too chockablock to wreck them
Of plastered twits who want a Beckham
But will settle for a dish to neck ‘em
So, I plow deeper into Soho
A city even worse than Skid Row
But, ‘know your onions!’ so I go
And am reassured: it beats Glasgow
“Chauffer, I wish to end our stay”
He explains the road is just one way
“Those rules are not for me”, I say
And command he turn here anyway
He spins the car: a bump, then yell
The chauffeur shouts, “Bloody hell!”
And outside the car, a crowd’s a’ swell
Over some legless tosser who just fell
I poke my head around the glass
And see a broken oozing mass
A bloody heap that tried to pass
Knocked over when we hit the gas
Some peasant from its condominium
(What are those made from, aluminum?)
But all seems to be in equilibrium
No need to stay here a millennium
“Chauffeur! Let us lunch back in the palace!
He just needs a nice strong chalice!
The commoners know we meant no malice”
They look at me as though I were callous
Then I reroll the glass before I gag
And take a long relaxing drag
From a menthol flavored fag
I’ve stowed away in my bum bag
My lunch is salt-less beans and porridge
Seasoned with a pinch of borage
Which I daily send to forage
For it wilts and wanes when it’s in storage
Then I watch the news go for a spin
See Brexit’s got another pin
And that some fellow’s been done in
By a royal family kin
“Codswollop,” I say, then “I’ll blame Markle
Low as a dog, and with her next bark I’ll
Remind her Great Britain is matriarchal!”
Then I close my eyes, so no one sees them sparkle
I click the telly and grab a quill
And sign off on some other bill
Because leading really takes no skill
Then I hear a shout: “This ain’t a drill!”
“Blimey!” I nearly drop my scroll
As the palace bells begin to toll
I look up outside, on my flagpole:
A waving mass of used bog roll
“Your highness, we must go somewhere safer
Your securities have begun to taper
They’ve decked the halls with toilet paper
And we still don’t know who was the draper!”
I hear the butler, but carry on
With my survey of the lawn
And the protesters thereon
To see which of them had done the con
And at that moment, I hear a voice
Who I recognize, but don’t rejoice:
“Your liege, you offered me no choice!
That was my love in front of your Rolls Royce!”
And who should it be but Miss Cartoony
That same old twit straight out of uni
Her tear-stained eyes now more racoony
Trying to make me look bafoony
Well I certainly cannot have that
I don my most majestic hat
And singing where I could have spat
I call, “My dear, stop being such a prat!”
Then, because these are my grounds
I click the switch to release the hounds
And a dozen corgis come screaming down
Attacking her and all her clowns
Shrieks fill the lawn as gnashing maws
Rip tendons and dislocate jaws
My corgis bring forth fear not “aw”s
Death rides atop their stubby paws
And with my dogs upon her horde
I see that balance is restored
I’m back to frightfully adored
And frankly now, I’m rather bored
“Butler, go and clean the trim
Oust the rolls and scattered limbs
The gardenias are looking grim
Those bloody scraps of flesh aren’t prim”
My maid brings tea, I pick a bun
Next a martini, and later rum
Outside there grows a louder hum:
A media frenzy’s shout and drum
My butler enters, looking ill
(Maybe just from cleaning swill?)
But I can tell, with sudden chill
The time has come to pay my bill
“Your Royal Highness, they have come
They ask why you have stayed so mum
They say they have a smoking gun
They say that you have killed someone”
My maid blurts: “Is it really you?
The one they must be talking to?”
I think, it doesn’t matter what is true:
Their blood is red and mine is blue
So, I didn’t think to lie
I gave those journals their reply
Now every headline prints the cry:
“Said the queen: Why yes tis I!”