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.
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!
Now by royal order:
You must each create your own original poem.
(or off to the Tower you go!!)