At half-past four (or near enough)
And pretty soon, on every channel,
A future king emerged, to guff,
To chatter, and to outright flannel.
It had no name, but had a weight,
And was a future head of state.
Probably, when eighty-five,
This infant will accede the throne,
Assuming that he’s still alive,
And pays off all his student loan:
The first gig of his kingly spree?
Hastings’ thousandth jubilee.
I’d be there, but I’d have to equal
Longevity’s extremest figure,
So he, himself a sort of sequel,
Won’t hear my moan or groan or snigger:
I hope by then, he doesn’t think,
Like Charles, the world is sky blue pink.
I hope the double-breasted suit
And duchies which are tax-exempt
And other wheezes saving loot
Are thought by then beyond contempt,
And that the new prospective Maj.
Can tell what is a blatant cadge.
Of course, poor child, you are fate’s patsy,
Condemned to drivel round the clock,
And hunted by the paparazzi.
Perhaps you should sit up, take stock,
And tell your two-man team from Gynae,
‘I may be very, very tiny,
But if I am to be a symbol
Don’t let me, boom boom, bang the drum;
Nor make me pod-cast every Crimble,
Rather, make me almost dumb,
A quiet, decent, old recluse,
Who’s happy to be not much use.’
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