The small streets of Windsor are sparkling today –
it helps that the homeless were moved on their way

Union flags limp overhead – bought online for thirty quid –
as the old – the young – the poor
the ill – wait patiently – right until

The rich – the landed – the toffs –
the Dukes – pass them by – up high –
so aloof

Then roads are re-opened to one and all –
the returning beggars lay out their stalls

Once more in England there’s a tale to tell –
How a town was reduced to a right royal hell

I do not believe
in anything I read,
apart from the stutters
of rhymed poetry:
I will kneel down
to fix the any-things,

I know kneeling’s best done
beneath un-wed kings,
under His patronage,
under His state,
because Royalty commands
us plebs to wait:

Ladies, crowns, patronage
and the fine arts,
we queue in His corridor
to win His blue heart:
I will piss up my shed,
the oak-clad exterior,
and wish to piss
on the Royal posterior:

Believe nothing, son,
instead recall,
your grandfather died,
and your father was a fool:
Dig deep into ancestry,
for a small fee,
there you will find
no royalty.