Lord Lucan, legally, ‘presumed dead’,
Is what the bookies will have read:
Rip-up old long-suspended bets,
Odds-off these shores, without regret.
Bingham, Lucan’s sniffy son,
Could claim a house-sat Lordly sum:
Was it worth his killing-off,
To gain a seat with fellow toffs?
The Seventh’s bloody final-foray,
A stained rumour, via, grey Calais?
Deck-stood, stiff moustache-lipped Lord,
Ferried by friends to his last abroad?
Uckfield, his final Sussex embrace,
Then drove out to headlines of disgrace:
Was he honourable, on Newhaven’s quay,
Or was she, regretfully, ‘just a nanny’?