"windsor" poems
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
I was small then
She had a parakeet that landed on my head
and a bathtub too
with water so deep!
and legs and claws!
**** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!
She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
where bugs hung-out in the haze
of teenage August
I played in the tall weeds
with a shoeless Italian boy
who ate tomatoes like apples
and cucumbers right off the vine!
He was ***** free and foreign!
We played— reckless, abandoned
behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn
and through the endless fields
I didn’t know....
His name was Tony
I ate pizza with him—the first time
At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
but I could watch night flowers
bloom on wallpaper
She came in to say good night
slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
and I peeped her *******
like Tony’s cucumbers!
I had never seen my mother’s wonders....
Night spread its wings from the old fan—
a bird of tireless exhaustion
whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
tireless exhaustion
tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
stretched out on the whine
of the overland trucks
Route Five through the night of an open window
In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
crickets crickets crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
a summer child
not yet ready for the fall of answers
Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
I followed her everywhere I could
I was small then--
do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
of being sixteen
and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”
while she tied her sneakers
against the mattress by my head
I followed Maureen (in my mind)
tanned and bandanned
to work in the fields of shade tobacco
with all those Puerto Rican boys!
She knew where she was going!
I was small then
...do anything for a stick of gum
“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
...through the goldenrod of roadside
through the smell of oil that damped the dust
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
the way the screen door slammed
on her bright behind
the way her lips taunted and took
the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen
I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!
Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”
Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)
…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, beboppin’
“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
[Being an humble address to Her Majesty's Naval advisers, who sold Nelson's old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.]
WHO says the Nation's purse is lean,
Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
When all the glories that have been
Are scheduled as a cash asset?
If times are bleak and trade is slack,
If coal and cotton fail at last,
We've something left to barter yet--
Our glorious past.
There's many a crypt in which lies hid
The dust of statesman or of king;
There's Shakespeare's home to raise a bid,
And Milton's house its price would bring.
What for the sword that Cromwell drew?
What for Prince Edward's coat of mail?
What for our Saxon Alfred's tomb?
They're all for sale!
And stone and marble may be sold
Which serve no present daily need;
There's Edward's Windsor, labelled old,
And Wolsey's palace, guaranteed.
St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,
The Tower and the Temple grounds;
How much for these? Just price them, please,
In British pounds.
You hucksters, have you still to learn,
The things which money will not buy?
Can you not read that, cold and stern
As we may be, there still does lie
Deep in our hearts a hungry love
For what concerns our island story?
We sell our work -- perchance our lives,
But not our glory.
Go barter to the knacker's yard
The steed that has outlived its time!
Send hungry to the pauper ward
The man who served you in his prime!
But when you touch the Nation's store,
Be broad your mind and tight your grip.
Take heed! And bring us back once more
Our Nelson's ship.
And if no mooring can be found
In all our harbours near or far,
Then tow the old three-decker round
To where the deep-sea soundings are;
There, with her pennon flying clear,
And with her ensign lashed peak high,
Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer.
There let her lie!
3.2k
~and for Harlan, who loved this one best~
*"for tandem is the ever-changing, graying color of their fierce attached tenacity"
waking/walking in
careful pacing regular lock steps,
like new cadets, counting cadence,
in perfect silent, almost motionless,
except for the minuscule quivering of
slightly parted moving lips
these two elders,
still now plebes,
freshmen
but of a latter, graduated stage,
demonstrating robustly
the slow shuffle-along,
a well practiced dance conjured
'in tandem'
her arm, crooked in his,
his other hand,
in protective custody of a
knight's armored chain glove
encasing hers,
he, shuffling just,
a precise, intended half-a-beat slower
lest she ever think
that she, ever be a drag upon him
hair, his,
threaded with daily,
new arriving grays,
proudly accepted
as the privilege of
graceful aging
hers,
disguised with periodic outings,
outings for the hidings of life's bookmarks,
conceding nothing ever to
time's lunatic desire to separate them
modest in dress,
styling hints of pasts' elegant,
the man's hat defiant,
daringly jaunty angled,
a small scarf to handbag knotted,
matching his Windsor knotted tie
the passers-by, all smile,
the signal charm of an
end game processional,
thinking so sweet,
yet mine eyes detect more,
something
hardy and radical
a fierce, fierce fierceness,
both fighters in the resistance,
armed with tandem tenacity,
ground given,
but only inches surrendered,
wounds resisted by
scar skin toughened
by the caress of ions bonding
under the pressure
of atomic level mutuality
worn out,
well past Purple Hearts,
no capitulation feared,
to the ever changing,
enemies' new disguises,
they,
a two person platoon,
each,
having the other's back
and I burst into tears on the street,
a train of out loud moans,
even groans emitted,
like a string of perfect pearls
breaking,
clattering on an asphalt terrain
weeping
not
from visions of the inevitable,
sighing
not
from the certitude of a
cycle's uptime ending*
but jealous furious by this reminder delightful,
angry at myself, for having lost so many wasted years,
mine, the loss greatest, for absent was the
fierce tenacity of tandem
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..."
( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD )
She believed that
deep deep inside her
the flame of a femme fatale
burned brightly.
Could imagine herself stepping out of
some classic Film Noir.
Cultivated herself
to look like Marie Windsor
opposite the dangerously gorgeous
John Garfield.
But her life it seemed had her
stepping into an Edward Hopper.
The isolation and the paint
still wet.
The lonely lady
glimpsed in an hotel window
from a passing train
autumnal rain.
Still she acted always as if
she was in her own movie l
walking around her tiny flat
naked
except for red stilettos
red earrings...red lipstick.
Making up her own snappy lines
to some imaginary leading man.
"Are you decent?"
"Yes""
"But you're....you're naked!"
"You only asked if I was decent!"
The mirror laughed
catching the reflection of who
she could have been
given half the chance.
She never
stood a chance.
She threw a cigarette up in the air
caught it between her lips
her one and only
party trick.
Lit or unlit.
Searching for middle C
on a battered piano
her mind off key
abandoning it
the piano's yellow smile.
She watched the sunlight
carve a block of time
out of the dividing wall.
fading the wallpaper roses.
The bed that was always
empty...always unmade.
She danced to Weill's
Youkali Tango.
Put it on again...again.
Scratching an already scratched record.
The needle gathering fluff.
The porcelain milkmaid...dust.
She disliked the way sweat
gathered under her *******
They were always a little too large.
Hated men staring so hard.
Ahhhh the faded romance
a sunset heart attack.
Couldn't have wrote
herself a better script.
Staggering in her dance
gasping that all too unsubstantial
air as if trying to
catch time
the presentpastfuture
falling out of her hand.
The wooden acorn
of the tattered blind
tapping against
the ***** window pane.
Neon going green.
Then red.
Now blue.
And then green again.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
Let me introduce myself,
I’m Paul B.
P to the A to the U to the L to the B.
You say Paul,
I say B.
You say Paul,
I say…
I used to teach English, try to inspire.
Least you can say is, I was a trier.
Love this rapping: it gets my feet tapping,
Even though I ought to be napping.
I write poems like a word ejector,
Keep away you Grammar Inspector!
Jay-Z writes in iambic pentameters,
Making out he’s got no parameters.
Honey G just copies off him,
Oh my God she really is dim.
Does her rap like Barbara Windsor,
Do you remember Needles and Pins-ah?
Me I’m copying off them both,
Though it’s only for a laugh.
Whoops a daisy that don’t quite rhyme,
Another case of Butters Rhyme Crime.
Rap is ******* I often say,
Though it rhymes the poetic way.
That leaves me with one thing to say:
You say Paul,
I say…
Paul Butters
© PB 17\10\2016.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
We are the terraced women
piled row on row on the sagging, slipping hillsides of our
lives.
We tug reluctant children up slanting streets
the push chair wheels wedging in the ruts
breathless and bad tempered we shift the Tesco carrier bags
from hand to hand
and stop to watch the town
The hill tops creep away like children playing games
our other children shriek against the school yard rails
‘there’s Mandy’s mum, John’s mum, Dave’s mum,
Kate’s mum, Ceri’s mother, Tracey’s mummy’
we wave with hands scarred by groceries and too much
washing up
catching echoes as we pass of old wild games
after lunch, more bread and butter, tea
we dress in blue and white and pink and white checked
overalls
and do the house and scrub the porch and sweep the street
and clean all the little terraces
up and down and up and down and up and down the hill
later, before the end-of-school bell rings
all the babies are asleep
Mandy’s mum joins Ceri’s mum across the street
running to avoid the rain
and Dave’s mum and John’s mum – the others too – stop
for tea
and briefly we are wild women
girls with secrets, travellers, engineers, courtesans, and stars
of fiction, films
plotting our escape like jail birds
terraced, tescoed prisoners rising from the household dust
like heroines.
Pennyanne Windsor, from Poetry 1900-2000 One hundred poets from Wales
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
Sitting in white shirt
(Loosened yuppie Windsor knot)
Armchair laughing
Having realized the grand joke of life
Satisfied little Sanskrit honey
Is it a bohdi tree or burning bush
(When really are one and same)
Don't think too hard
Suburban white boy dreams of trap houses
With tie over shoulder
As the tv says it prevents
***** on tie
Little air planes
Round and white
Hard pressed (to explain)
Make one fly at high speed
Get it? (never mind inside joke laughing)
Talks like a gang banger
Can't take it seriously
Little big boy equals not shook
Drinking rot gut tallboys
Days after and minutes away
Zehaf-Bibeau war memorial
Winchester repeater in hand
Supposed ideological threat needed
Expand the police state
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
The news will say we're suffering from excess immigration
That a rampant hoard of foreigners has fallen on our nation
But truthfully, there hasn't been a native Briton here
Since people dressed in mammoth skin and hunted with a spear
Our language is a mixture of a dozen different tongues
We munch our way through poppadoms, fajitas and fu-yungs
When cheering at a football match, we're infamously vocal
Our teams may be the finest but the players won’t be local
Genetically, a Briton is a multi-cultured stew
With Romans, Saxons, Vikings and the Celts, to name a few
Our national drink is Indian, the Germans make our beer
The TV comes from China and the table from IKEA
Potatoes from America and onions grown in Spain
A multitude of British things arrive by boat and plane
The rain that falls upon our hills has blown from over seas
And with it come migrating birds to nest in British trees
The Royal Windsor family have Greek and German genes
So think about just what it is that being British means
We're stronger with our differences, the best of humankind
Our nation, not an island but a common state of mind
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
Today a baby boy was born
The future heir to the British throne
Remember July 22nd was the date
Proud parents William & Kate
Every child born today will receive a Silver Penny
A collectors item, for so many
First we watched William & Kate marry
He has a really cool Uncle in Prince Harry
I bet he will show him some tricks
A bouncing baby boy 8lb 6,
A baby, a toddler, then into a little nipper
Look after him Auntie Pippa.
We will watch him grow up and ready to take his place
The news confirmed on the easel at Buckingham Palace
Well done to Kate Middleton
To us a Prince, to you a son.
Prince Charles is your Grandad
The Paparazzi will go mad
One day old and already on Twitter trending
Who will help, with the Royal winding
William & Kate must be so happy
One hopes One's been practicing changing a *****
Born in St Mary's, Lindo Wing
A child that will be our future King
Everyone is so happy for them
Born on a Monday 4.24pm
You're Great GrandMother is called Her Majesty the Queen
We'll watch him grow into a teen
For Prince Phillip four male generations
Now the country starts with the celebrations
The new addition to the Royal Family
The future of the British Monarchy
The Windsor family and the family of Middleton
A boy to bring them so much fun
Proud watching down over all times will be his Nanna
Brought up in the memory of Princess Diana
The name now we have to all guess
For now we call him His Royal Highness
For the country this brings so much joy
A beautiful, bouncing Royal Baby Boy
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
Windsor, and kite seats –
I see that we are snowed in to the sky
clouds have come half-removing themselves
to be just oxygen orbs, little pods
of white. So much like an eye
without a pupil, or a tulip budding wide.
She is beautiful but sad, salty sad
inhaling it as a fume
the smoke that does not disintegrate
giving her cancer of the brain.
These sails flap like torn skin,
pale and cleaned of the internal things.
Clouds feel that champagne-bottle way –
fizz hopping from their stomachs
and spread her melancholy east, then west.
We give it to you, gentleman,
with these outstretched ***** for hugs
infect you and cough on the ones we love.
But you are not yet stuck –
barren, frozen, these skypanes in ivory
unlock their mouths for weather to swallow
and only get the sad, salty sadness,
white winters infected by dirt.
Clouds told they can fly, but it still hurts.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
Take a group of chimpanzees
used to swinging through the trees,
and sit them down at keyboards in a row;
lots of paper, lots of ink,
lots and lots of time, I think,
and what the theory says I’m sure you know.
Yes, along with all the junk,
all the gibberish and bunk,
somewhere there’d be the full works of the Bard:
As You Like It, Cymbeline,
Richards 2 and 3, the Dream,
though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, might be hard.
But I’m sure the little blighters
would get on fine with *Titus
Andronicus*, The Taming of the Shrew,
The Moor of Venice (that’s Othello),
the other Merchant fellow,
and Antony and Cleopatra too.
The Winter’s Tale would hold no terrors,
nor The Comedy of Errors,
and Verona’s Gentlemen would turn out right;
Love’s Labour might be Lost,
or it might be Tempest-tossed,
but All’s Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night.
Lear, King John, and Much Ado,
Henry 4, parts 1 and 2,
Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts), Henry 8,
Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure,
Pericles (a neglected treasure)
and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate;
all the Sonnets, and the ****
of Lucrece* (typed by an ape!)
and if they worked for ever and a day
they could fit in Julius Caesar,
that Coriolanus geezer,
the Wives of Windsor, and the Scottish play.
I grew more and more excited –
even thought I might be knighted
if I could be the one to make it work.
But to realise my dream
I had to try a pilot scheme,
to prove I wasn’t just a reckless berk.
I bought one chimp from the zoo -
didn't have the cash for two -
and gave him a typewriter, just to try
for a short while. Well, a fortnight
was the time-scale that I thought right.
You see, I’m quite an optimistic guy.
Now everyone who heard
of my project said, “Absurd!”
when I told them of my striking new departure.
“Get a chimpanzee to type
the works of Shakespeare? Oh, what tripe!”
Still … he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Wake not for the world-heard thunder,
Nor the chimes that earthquakes toll;
Stars may plot in heaven with planet,
Lightning rive the rock of granite,
Tempest tread the oakwood under,
Fear not you for flesh or soul;
Marching, fighting, victory past,
Stretch your limbs in peace at last.
Stir not for the soldier's drilling,
Nor the fever nothing cures;
Throb of drum and timbal's rattle
Call but men alive to battle,
And the fife with death-notes filling
Screams for blood--but not for yours.
Times enough you bled your best;
Sleep on now, and take your rest.
Sleep, my lad; the French have landed,
London's burning, Windsor's down.
Clasp your cloak of earth about you;
We must man the ditch without you,
March unled and fight short-handed,
Charge to fall and swim to drown.
Duty, friendship, bravery o'er,
Sleep away, lad; wake no more.
1.4k
Maybe you’ve gone with Moss Bros
Or you’ve stuck to trusty M&S
But I can point to a surer way
to ensure you’re dressed for success
*
No matter how long you’ve spent
Adjusting your silks and laces
No matter how hard it was
to talk him out of his lairy braces
*
Whether you selected a Windsor knot
Or your favourite velvet bow tie
[A bold choice, Toby.]
I can share some well-worn wisdom
By which you should always abide
*
I know a dress code tested by time
Simple words to which we should hold
Simple but essential for all of us here
So let’s check we’re all properly clothed
*
Next time you’re walking down the red carpet
And they ask, ‘Who are you wearing?’
There's no need to look for the neckline label
Don’t waste your time with checking
*
Every day you both put on Christ
You kit yourselves out with the King
Knowing this is all that you’ll need
For whatever the day will bring
*
But like royal robes or battle armour
His garments come in layers
Put them on in careful sequence
Buttoned up with tailored prayers
*
You begin with feather-lite Compassion
Laced with silken Kindness
It’s followed by soft Humility
A garment that’s forever timeless
*
You add to this tough Gentleness
That’s core to the Saviour’s style
With a lining of weighty Patience
So you can each stay versatile
*
You ensure the ensemble’s been well steamed
With a fierce, cleansing Forgiveness
You set the dial high enough
To remove past creases of grievance
*
Now, some might think this will be enough
That that is ample fussing
But there’s one remaining layer
That you know isn’t worth you rushing
*
Over each of these rich garments
to keep them all in place
you put on the strong bond of Love
like a long full-body embrace
*
Then whatever the weather or season
on each and every occasion
You can both enjoy the Peace of knowing
You’ll never need alterations
*
You may have heard it said
And with Thanks we can affirm
Some fashions do remain timeless
And this one's designed for long term
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 10:24 AM UTC
I wanted so deeply, truly,
without words, a tune,
a lyric, or a song,
to be,
oh my dearest love,
to be,
your national anthem,
to represent you, my golden
note in the sky, flying past
birds circling our skies,
the stars, and stripes, the
colours,
to be,
everything that represented, my
commitment, love, loyalty,
the unspoken,
patriotic, musical composition
gluing us together,
devoted I fell,
oh my dearest love,
we were the one,
placed ring,
do you remember my dear,
my great grandmothers ring,
the purple stone, and how
the emerald would,
grace my hand, a signature
of love, eternal blessings,
the vastness of,
Great Windsor Park, all
those lengthy trails, deer
hiding, behind the lens
camera clicking, as we
waltzed down, our
imagined up isle,
who needs a church,
when we have, horses
that gallop, our capes
we are red ruby slippers,
clicked,
we are the two princesses,
without our, frog kissed prince
we have changed the ending,
curtailed the tale,
we have used our,
unstoppable
love,
to make our own,
day dream
(nightmare)
a true, match
made in heaven,
to only,
end in,
hell,
cursed by the power,
of the malevolent,
wicked witch,
of the west.
© Sia Jane
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
They’re going to **** you she said.
They are coming at dawn.
You best dress to impress, she said with a yawn
And who was I,
to deny those who know better,
who am I to fetter.
So the windsor,
choked high,
She rolled her eyes,
those colors don’t match,
a disappointed sigh,
I can’t be caught dead,
in such retched attire,
but a man such as I
can't afford better,
so we sat for a while,
until the light bathed my face,
I couldn’t smile,
wouldn’t die in style.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
Tuck into your suit and power.
Stand tall amongst dwarves.
The ditsy mistress polishes the pleather
Fake sheen, fake ****
Fake smiles, fake gits.
Cheesy grins all round,
Lap up that cheeky cheddar cheese.
Now onto desert.
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 8:13 AM UTC
hear your name
one more time
drive it home
let the messages play
turn it up
let them scream
cause it's not in me
totally starving
take it all
stuff my face
pass out on the floor
i'll leave
i miss you
i love you
where are you?
do you miss me?
do you love me?
hear your name
one more time
drive it home
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 1:41 AM UTC
Arrested.
A Windsor knot
binds my
fickle neck
to my dour
shoulders.
Plastic ties
elegant wrists
in pair.
One question:
Head up or down?
I lied.
Another question.
Atop a question.
Am I
headed up or down?
Give me redemption
or else,
how can I ignore it?
One bedroom.
An eager clock,
minutes
from my set,
or expected
The End,
happily
leaves me to my
routine.
One question:
Head up or down?
I lied.
Another question.
Atop a question.
Am I
headed up or down?
Give me freedom
or else,
how can I ignore it?
Can I really be who I want?
Can I really be what I mean?
Will I ever solidify?
Will I ever come to?
And who will come?
(. . .)
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:12 PM UTC
Spyer and Windsor
Often stayed late.
Out on the dance floor
enjoying their date.
Their love was their secret
concealed for some years
From nosy co-workers
and curious ears.
No ring could she give
To her love of all time,
Same *** love was condemned
in Societies mind.
For richer, for poorer,
for better or worse.
Four decades they waited,
their vows to say first.
Then Death intervened
and put them apart.
Windsor barely survived
What they call “Broken Heart”
Now her day in court beckons
The Judgment day nears.
Were their vows a true marriage,
or not what it appears?
Will she owe Estate Tax-
Some three hundred grand-
Because she wed a woman
Instead of a man?
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
Seafoam green out of the corner of my eye with a windsor knot, sleeping in the window seat, on the windowsill perched like a crow waiting on the spoils of a burger and fries. Stupid whiskey flask follows me from town to town in my breast pocket navy blue with a 40-R in the hemline to let me know the mediocre, average life I should’ve traced along the stencil of… a greywash and black existence. Several openings in the vent by the window ran up my face in a reversal of every law Newton ever jotted on parchment paper and sealed with gravity and a drop of wax. He must’ve wondered about regular things often. Like emotion. He must’ve had it figured out. He must cook one hell of an Alfredo and win a lot of chess matches to tackle something like gravity.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
It is June. Plaridel is in sepia, or leaden – whichever,
this is the leitmotif.
Soon clouds with jettison a plodding swathe of
water. You will wear the petrichor,
While a ramshackle of a passing tricycle
whelms a throbbing orchestra of junk.
Here is the hearth that rears no fire:
a mother, children in tow – a troika,
on a cart not even close to ease of
a hurtling thing. Trees naked in vulnerable
green – the verdigris carried by a
miniscule Maya.
Here comes again, the neighbor peering through
the nuisance, is alarmed, eyes like a fugitive,
curses my mother – I grab the nearest, sharpest
object available that was my own hand.
Ingrained deep within, a root – or a stone, among many
other stones in me, this salt-well, a savingslight of turning wave
that is almost an approximate oceanview in me.
Gnarled over the longest time. In here we soothe by
gin, passing out in front of our gated homes,
singing whatever was available, close to our pitch.
Somewhere, Windsor has lost the poem / critiqued by
a mirror fecundating a smeared image, a blot.
A Rorschach was it, or just a day dazed they did.
Somewhere, this is scattered. Uncollected. To make remnants
of as evidence, not to investigate if true.
The 6th body of this is what I am speaking of in glossolalia.
A requiem leaves it stark and cold in this consummate weather.
Another piercing salvage of metal cuts the humdrum town
and unlike the sturdy mango tree, this is a collective of secret
encrypted lasting more than a life.
It is June. Plaridel has ripened from the expired summer.
Perchance the exquisite promise is sweet, holding all the bitterness together,
ready to fall, at last.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
How can I withdraw if I already knew
Yet still your Partying Masquerade protect
Else file this Conspiracy. Though if true
Half the Pie sweet yet my Slice introspect
There is no need for your own Lock-and-File
Especially when it comes to your Honour
That, if Humbled, may these Heads reconcile
And gain access to your Bluebird's Favour
Which even Windsor, a Prince that he is
Taught by the Crown to consider the Queue
Of his Level, absorb your Head in this -
A Basic Lesson we all must review.
Yes, I'll comply. For the Empire's sake
To keep the Boys cooked; And Girls at your bake.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:47 AM UTC
At the rumble of a badger's yawn
At the crack of a sparrow's ****
At the pang of his weakened bladder
That's when he makes his start
With the scrape of greying stubble
With the shine of derby brogues
With a perfect Windsor knot
That's how my husband rolls
At the slam of the paneled door
At the echo of a muttered curse
At the march of polished steps
It's then that I emerge
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
They married in the merry month of May
at Windsor Castle - Hey Noney Ney!
So, Meghan and Prince Harry
decided not to tarry.
Now a baby’s on the way.
next Spring - they say..
The Queen’s amused
The Duke’s bemused
Prince Charles enthused:
saying to Duchess Camilla,
“A Jolly Good Show! Oh Joy!”
Said she: “A girl or boy?”
Said HRH "Don't tease.
One or the other -
no transgender if you please,
nor talk of Succession
to threaten my Accession.”
TOBIAS
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC