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Another ninety year old’s birthday soon,
A decade short of a card from the Queen:
Mrs Windsor, in her state-aided room,
Mis-rules her memory, un-throned, unseen.
The square root of ninety, now her empire,
With common dominion, three floors below.
Her self-labelled walking-frame is required,
For any walkabout, on which she goes.
The children visit, briefly, in a blue moon,
With unsubtle, quick-wrist clock-watching:
Charlie Windsor’s the worst, her first heirloom,
All she’s to will him, her love of Elvis, her King.