I found a queen at the jubilee
All spackled with sparkles, a version of me
Gyrating along to the monarchy
In the downpour outside a pub.

The crown I spurned, he leapt back as if burnt
And wailed; I said “no offence” -
Not that it mattered as the guy was battered
And I was just after the gents. <sic>

He said: his mates had left, he was bereft
But seemed of rather good cheer.
My sympathy stirred or my drunkenness spurred
Me to offer to buy him a beer.

So we went inside as his dyes (he’d been dyed)
Were running away in the rain
The tricolour hues all swamped by the blues
He howled at the mirror in pain.

“You look like a Pict” “You’re a prick” “No, a Pict”
He didn’t know or care what I said.
He tried a Union Jack as a hood; cried – “No flippin’ good-
OMG! I’ve died! I’m dead!”

He grabbed his handbag and then my hand
And married the two there and then.
Then dragged us all though in a dash for the loo
And barrelled us into the mens.

He stared at the glass and at me and my arse
With an intensity that threw me,
Until I realised he saw only his pink-purple jaw
And he squeaked “I want you to blue me!”

“I don’t mean to be rude but –Come on, dude;
Your majesty could show some restraint.”
He tipped out his purse, titillation dispersed,
As he screeched “Do it lacky: Paint!”

I took up his crown as he knelt down
And sent it clattering into the sink
Whether a tease or a flirt I was really quite hurt
What must ladies-in-waiting think?

I dutifully smeared a flag ear to ear
And her majesty leapt to her feet
With no further ado, he shot from the loo
Arrogant, selfish, effete.

I shouldn’t wallow, should jump up and follow
Watch him gracelessly sail through the crowds
But the Royal ‘we’ is ‘one’, and his duty is fun
And his screeching was really too loud.

I sighed at the farce when the erection had passed
And pissed and thought: ‘how hateful’.
Not a word of thanks – no chance of a wank
And still I’m grudgingly grateful.