To celebrate, or at least acknowledge, the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, Max has written four new and wholly original poems which cast a rather different light on the monarchy. While everyone's aware of Prince Philip's xenophobia and Harry's Nazi sympathies, Max's Jubilee Poems reveal the West Indian influences on the Windsors, a predilection for shopping at Poundland and the one thing that unites the whole family, a hatred of ...
It was the royal Jubilee, the princes cried, Hooray!
It's time to throw a party, for Mummy's holiday.
They hurried down to Poundland, to buy some paper cups,
And plastic Chinese Union Jacks, and hats for Corgi pups.
But what about the food we'll eat, the cupboard's bare as sand,
Oh, worry not, the Queen replied, your mum has been to Iceland.
Dis is de Queen, she de royal machine,
Flag wavin', party ravin',
Knight Bart of the treacle tart,
On de tap, of this Jubilee rap.
In a thousand shady garden, dappled sun on table cloths,
Sandwiches and paper napkins, cluster round like cabbage moths,
While a gentle breeze caresses, bunting bold, red, white and blue,
And fizzy pop in paper cartons, bubbles like the mountain dew.
Rejoice you now, dear homes of Britain, cheer our blessed sovereign's name,
Sixty years of tireless leadership, dignified in face of fame,
Last in line of gentle rulers, royal duty quietly borne,
Elizabeth, the pride of nations, we celebrate your Jub'lee morn.
Asda cakes rise up to greet you, Sainsbury's bunting cries your name,
Hong Kong vases, Indian beakers, celebrate your royal fame,
Tills are ringing, banks are bursting, money's flowing, as you see,
O'er the world the coffers calling, oh God has blessed the Jubilee.
The bunting flies at Windsor Street, the Queen has set the table,
The corgies bark, the wine's uncorked, and all that are quite able,
Are settled down with bread and pies and caviar and quiche,
But there's an empty setting, at the Windsor Castle niche.
Oh who, oh who's so absent, on this merry day in June?
Kate or Pippa? No they're here, and Wills will be here soon.
And then they say quite loudly, I guess the unrequited,
For we are missing Fergie, the bitch was not invited!
Copyright © Max Scratchmann 2012. All Rights Reserved