Dead Duke

The Duke of Westminster is dead, today,
Who the fuck, I hear you say,

Gerald Grosvenor, billionaire, sixth Duke,
interned in Ecclestone – it is no joke.

No longer sat in Eaton Hall,
his yard, ten thousand acres all,

To be passed to his (youngish) lad –
being entitled isn’t so bad!

Three days a year they open their gates,
to give to charity, from God’s own estate.

Within succession, an obligation there,
to raise a few quid, three days each year.

No inheritance tax, to save our state,
instead a trust, ensures none paid:

The richest aford the best in advice,
whilst the others live fucked-over lives.


I step in these thick-soled carpet slippers,
aware that some floorboards will creak
when I tread and apply too much pressure:

I try to avoid such strain on places,
that will attract low complaint,
of the short pleasures which I take,

such as readings, or speeches,
I see these as our common duty,
that none of us should shy from,

because this life is not
about waiting to die, at best,
not in thick-soled carpet slippers.