Duty

I’m opening something they’ve named after me,
Though what it’s for, I haven’t got a clue.
They’ll file past and bow, their finest hour,
As I enquire about the work they do.

I’ll spend tomorrow signing into force
Some dire new arrangements I deplore,
Then welcome a dictator to a feast,
And hope he won’t be too much of a bore.

I’ll have to meet the PM every week
As she reduces Britain to a wreck.
I’ll gurn as she walks backwards from the room,
Hoping she’ll trip and break her blessed neck.
Now I’m Defender of the Faith, I pray
That pseudo-Christian soon gets blown away.

I don’t know how, but I would hope that all
My family’s faults are kept out of the press.
For surely one’s entitled to enjoy
One’s privacy, whatever one’s address.

I’ll send Camilla out to meet the plebs;
Like dear old Ma, she has the common touch;
And practise for a broadcast on the box –
All platitudes, though I could say so much.

Then there’s that bloody horse I’ve got to ride
For Trooping of the Colour, what a farce.
My jangling medals make it prance about.
Lord give me strength, and padding for my arse…
But since they’ve made me King, why can’t I say
“Duty be damned! I’m off on holiday”?

Refer to: Poet Laureate for a day