Fall of a Monarch
From Mykonos to Marbella
in beach side bars and chiringuitos,
the monarchists while away the time,
swatting away jewel-backed flies
with a tabloid or Take a Break.
It’s no Dunkirk.
This repatriation, Freudian-slipped into rescue
by a lizard-brained spokesman on
the illegal BBC in the corner of the bar,
will summon the British Bulldog spirit.
Beer will be drunk, cocktails sunk
for the sun will be over the yardarm
somewhere in the long-lost empire.
It’s no problem.
Keep calm and summon the waiter,
hope you can be the last to board
on the last flight out of paradise,
clinking bags along the travelator.
For it’s a sign, if you’ve a mind
for reading symbols in names
and auguries in the tea drinker’s leaves.
It’s no portent.
Just a coincidence, a monarch falls,
so what? The song might as well be
Monarchy in the UK
- for nothing has changed.
We were punch-drunk on glorious punk
but they emerged into middle class light
and spit downwards from comfort.
It’s no ending.
We’ll bugger on, keep on buggering on
to the next new dawn, the false start
of returning to a golden age that
never was, that we never had so good.