Canto CCLXXVII

They’re having a street party two streets down.
I don’t begrudge their spirits, I won’t drive
my Republican dump truck through their lawns.

I sit at home and take a gentle sniff
of the flawless skin of my daughter’s left arm.
One forgets, through all the years we live,

how perfection imbued our newborn forms.
I choose to keep an eye on the future,
the dewy promise of the years to come,

and turn a cold and indifferent shoulder
to sixty years of our dear regents’ reign.
The right of birth might now be ten years older,

I’ll place my faith with all the newly born.

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Canto CCLXXIV

I’ve no problem with all that Argie Bargie,
the Thames clogged up with waving Monarchy,
let’s wave our flags, salute her Majesty

and let those inbred toffs float out to sea,
to meet her new subjects, some crabs and cod,
and as the waves grow higher, we will see

if, like the song says, she’ll get saved by God.

Canto CLV

I’m not a believer, so I don’t pray
for the man behind the closed ambulance doors.
The wreckage has almost been cleared away,

the motorbike’s a write off and who knows
the state of broken bones, the hammered brain?
I only have my thoughts to give and those

won’t ride a long, celestial hotline.
Across the road, above the large building,
the Standard with the lions and harp is flying

to let us all know that the Queen is in.

Canto CXIX

The heart is not the locus of the soul,
it’s just a meaty pump sat in the chest,
it keeps the hot blood flowing, plays its role

maintains its reps and never stops to rest,
as we blunder through our alloted days,
as fragile as a hatchling in its nest.

Two recent incidents argue the case—
the grand old Duke that went under the knife
to help extend his dicky ticker’s lease;

the boy that reached the end of his short life,
the short, sharp shank pierced through his pound of flesh,
to pay way over the Boxing Day sale price

for the ever present, branded leather swoosh.
I make no further comment of these two,
though you can make inferences if you wish,

I’ll simply leave this quaint advice to you
to get away from all this worldly din
and take a few moments to listen to

that blameless tempo, ticking on within.

Canto LVIII

Within my every cell there is a ladder
that splits and multiplies as rhibosomes
read the body’s convoluted chapters.

Not one of these busy automatons
care for the person that I come to be,
a long haired, ex-Catholic republican,

scoffing at so called equality,
voted in today by sitting Lords
now chicks are alright for the Monarchy.

And I know nothing of these tiny hordes,
these microscopic sweatshops, where the shifts
will never end until I am brown bread.

And so it is that that my long suffering wife
is yet to feel the fleet acrobatics
performed by that near thirteen week old life

nor will it feel her travails, morning sick
a few weeks more before the promised lull,
just as those inbred aristocratic

parasites, waving from their gilded Rolls
will never know the nine to five dolor
of flag waving or finger flipping proles,

who are, by all accounts, their employers.

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