A Poem by Queen Liz

As I sit upon my comfortable Queenly throne,

A myriad of quite regal thoughts ’round me drone.

Should I take tea with that nice Jeremy Corbyn?

Or maybe visit my yappy House of Corgis?

.

Phillip the Brave lies in his chamber, still snoring.

Doubtless dreaming of future gaffes for performing.

The palace maids are uniformly bustling and bright.

Clearing up after Harry, t’was a most raucous night!

.

Meanwhile I decree ‘National Poetry Day!’

I like a good rhyme when One has the time.

.

Poesies and prosies shall abound all around,

and this good Isle shall be joyfuller for the sweet sound,

.

of children in lessons slow reading of Auden,

and bus drivers reciting their memories of Yeats,

and old ladies giggling at books from Pam Ayres,

and shifty-eyed teenagers DH-ing at Lawrence.

.

While I myself, Queen ER of this bounteous land

shall be settling to the fire, poetry book in my hand.

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is it Burns, Wordsworth, or Browning? I hear you enquire.

Lord Byron, Mr Tennyson, Hardy, T.S. Eliot (esquire?)

Misses Bronte, young Shelley, Thomas, or Betjeman?

Wilfred Owen, or Shakespeare, Kingsley Amis, or Milton?

.

Smiling enigmatically, I shake my head slowly,

and open the dog-eared book Father bestowed me.

It’s none of those worthy Poets; not by an English mile.

It’s the magic words of Dr Suess, that makes One smile!

.

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Now by royal order:

You must each create your own original poem.

.

(or off to the Tower you go!!)