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Whatever the weather, at all State events
we wait in our thousands, excitement intense,
for the chance of a glimpse of a well-practised smile
affixed to its owner for mile after mile,
for the clatter of horses, the thrill of the band,
a vestigial wave from a royal white-gloved hand.
No matter we’re stuck at the back of the crowd
and can see very little we’re all of us proud
of the stage-managed grandeur and bling by the ton --
Ruritanian pomp in its fast-setting sun --
a reminder of times when our monarchs were head
of a globe mainly coloured a comforting red
where folk of all creeds and all colours would sing
God Save who we’d told them would now be their King.