The Queen is Dead

“The Queen is dead!” they’ll excitedly scream
As they lay back in their plastic sun loungers
A glass of cheap Lambrini in hand
Children playing on the sunburned grass
Of the communal council estate garden

“The Queen is dead!” they’ll wail sadly
As they listen to their DAB radio
In their sun-warmed glass conservatory
Relaxing in their bespoke garden suite
Whilst their Polish servant prepares them dinner

“The Queen is dead” they’ll shout greedily
Pound signs in their eyes
As they sit around a meeting table
Discussing the royal secrets they can sell
To their rabid readership

“The Queen is dead” they’ll silently weep
As their stories flash by before their eyes
Sitting in a faraway care home all alone
Remembering days gone by
When things meant more than they’re worth

“The Queen is dead” I’ll repeat these words soundlessly
The monarchy proves tiresome to me
I did not agree to their reign
But my view is ignored as the next in line is honoured
and thousands shout as one: “God save the King!”

COPYRIGHT ARRON

HICKMAN 2014

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