Our relationship belongs to the press.
The word has been out for a week now,
along with a ***-tape
and my drunken messages
from a sleepless hotel room.

They captured your good side. From behind.
You know that I always loved you in blue,
collarbones on the mantelpiece
and toenails painted with
the colour to match your moods.

I heard you crashed your car in a bunker
as you were documenting loss in Gaza.
The rockets flew overhead
as you were carried, pearl through dirt
into a white-skinned hospital bed.

I denounced my royalty by text message.
I blu-tacked a passport picture on the Queen's
vanity mirror, and took a ****
in the Yeoman's shoe.
We slipped out at night to blind cameras.

Our relationship belongs to the state.
The bills have been due for a week now,
along with better luck
and a wine glass full
of whatever will suit your taste.