When the princess died and
Bouquets en masse were tossed.
A day off work,
Pubs televising Images of instant grief.
What better excuse for gulping thirstily
Unable to manufacture tears?
I thought I was strange
In celebrating the feast days of
Saints Blaise, Swithin, Ambrose and Perpetua,
Every football match won, lost, drawn .
When the princess died
A nation mourned
And I enjoyed the show.
A soft Glaswegian told me
It was no unique game.
Across the years he held my gaze
And my need the same
Tilting a teary glass to drain
To Marilyn Monroe.
