Last night we saw with Downton gone,
Who’s now been picked to be the one,
To fill the slot for ITV,
For entertaining you and me.
It is to be a gracious queen,
Victoria’s the one I mean,
She who in her old age was glum,
And also named a type of plum.
But last night she was very young,
All dressed complete in fine shantung,
And this is how, perhaps not meant,
Her coronation really went*.
The ceremony was quite fine,
Not many people drunk on wine,
Rubies and diamonds awful bright,
And partying into the night.
But forward planning was quite poor,
No-one thought to rehearse before,
And only the Archbishop knew,
What anyone was meant to do.
The Queen was also at a loss,
Although she was indeed the boss,
And when the orb was in her hand,
To represent all of her land,
She said, “Be careful, you old twit!”
And, “What am I to do with it?”
The Dean replied, “Don’t stand, please sit.
As for the orb, just carry it.”
She said, “Just carry it you mean?
Remember that I am the Queen!
I’m rather slight, not five feet tall,
And as for this here golden ball,
Just holding it is not much fun,
Because it weighs a bloody ton!
Alas, my gait might be a wallow,
Next time I would like one that’s hollow.”
The Dean said, “Well now, never mind,
There is one of the lighter kind;
At other times that one is picked,
In case it should by chance get nicked.
But on occasions like today,
The proper one comes into play,
So people can see from afar,
How important you really are.”
“I know, because I am quite wise,
That people don’t have X-ray eyes;
So as to what’s inside it’s true,
They mostly wouldn’t have a clue.”
“Perhaps that’s true, but anyway,
The Press will all be here today,
And with the pictures that they take,
They will see if your hand doth shake.
Imagine, then, if they should run,
A story in tomorrow’s Sun,
Which said that our new Head of State,
Had ornaments in just gold plate!”
“Enough of this, the choir doth sing,
Now get on with it – where’s the ring?”
“I have it here, it’s ruby red,
And as I should by now have said,
We really should no longer linger,
So slip it onto your fourth finger.”
“The fourth one? Do not be a pratt!
That finger’s really far too fat.
I have to say, I am afraid,
It was for the fifth finger made!”
The Dean remarked, “That explains all.
I thought the bill was rather small.
But it’s the fourth one, that’s the rule,
I don’t want you to look a fool.
On second thoughts,” he gave a sigh,
“More to the point, no more do I”
The Queen held out her fingers slim,
Upon her face appeared a grin,
“And do not give me all that bull,
Of rings the fourth’s already full.
There really is just no more space,
Where one can now another place,
So that is it, now I have won,
You’ll have to use the little one.”
“Afraid it can’t be done, Old Queen.”
Again here speaking was the Dean,
“If we’re too long I’ll get a cough,
Those rings will just have to come off.”
“They are too tight,” the Queen replied,
“They’re staying on until I’ve died.
They can’t come off ’til my decease –
Unless you’ve got a tin of grease.”
“In fact I have,” the Dean said quick,
“I’ll get it out in just a tick.
It will soon have those rings off you,
And will do for the new one too.”
With pride the Dean held out his tin,
“This pot has got the grease within.”
“Oh, very well,” the Queen gave in,
“But make sure that you hide the tin.
This has a cock-up been today,
I dread to think what folk will say.”
* From Hilarious History Vol 5 by Ebenezer Bean
Photo – radiotimes.com
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