Treasong

I do redtop recon in local caff 
over nitrosamine sandwich
(the last diner donated a copy 
of the uncharitable Sun).
'Loyal subjects' poppysmic over pageantry 
(prozzies prizing a pimp's plumage).
'Loyal subjects' highborn hypocorism 
for 'Scum, But Our Scum'.

Saxe-Coburg-Stoata won't 
pop its Windsor weasals,
'til God's outed as Alan Smithee, 
the credits roll for Kingdom Come.
For leper equerries, 
lickspittle English mudsills,
workingclass virtue resides
in the vice of received wisdom.

Stout yeoman status masochists,
prole monarchists who find wonder 
not in wonders.
Inferiority complebs so wowed 
by plummyvoiced plunderers
that dulce et decorum becomes
a deathwish when war flips the switch
on their peacetime plebwish.

Feudal themepark fortified 
by perk sword, ignominious
honours. Sleb serfs genuflect, 
hobbled by thralldom
- shall we ever gain any Equilibritain, 
where fendersmiths mutinous
cinderise Windsors? UK PLC's 
slave morality: duty will be dumb.

But not by me, a precariat poet 
zerohoured by public demand.
Fronthall gridlock of Connolly's
pram pales as act of artistic harakiri 
next to Laureateship's lipserfdom, 
perduellion 'gainst truth: 
My First Lady is Sovereign Muse, Jackie 
Parnassus. Vive toutes les républiques!