Trying to be nice to the house of Saxe-Coburg.



Well that's it then,
something else to watch on the box,
other than midsummer murders,
during a hot summer of discontent.

Sorry about your father Bill,
try and make sure,
he doesn't spill the cherry brandy,
on the white Purcell linen,
still you didn't blink under the flashguns,
practice for that last meeting with the rebel militia.

I suppose you'll be sent to Oz,
every couple of years
if they haven't gone all Lord Protector.

Shame you weren't gay,
you could have tied the knot quietly,
in a registry in Brighton,
with a few close friends;
all purple winter violets.

I did like your mother,
she was such fun,
like an episode of East Enders,
where no one signs on.

Carol Anne will get her knickers in a twist,
trying to get the Maundy washing lines just right,
Waitrose marries unto Harrods,
and if all else,
you can always send him back,
and start a new religion.

Still they'll be making some fine art in Stoke on Trent,
a place will be found for it in the family China cabinet,
with that cup your uncle Albert won,
playing arrows in the Queen Vic.

Your grandmother will be made up,
just the way to share the loving cup,
a summer's day on the dancing green in June,
roses coming into bloom;
hawks will be flying in the valley
and they'll be cleaning the windows at the Ally Pally.

~