at the gate called Buckingham,
the Palace was engulfed
in British Dew, so gray
when suddenly, how strange,
two corgy dogs came at me growling.
In an evasive, quick manoeuvre
I entered royal territory,
a carriage driven by the Queen
devoured body, soul and spirit.
‘I must be dead’, the thought occurred,
a yellow light was playing sweetly
with four full-grown and horny moths.
The Prince was bandaging my ankle
and for my soul my head was cradled
within the lap of a stout maiden.
She stroked my hair, then kissed my cheek
and spoke exotic English,
I understood, I’d be alright
if not they would be sorry
and give command to have a wake
a burial with full honours
she smelled so nice and looked so young
her perfume is called Ambush.
And when Camilla mentioned ‘Wake’,
I sat up in my bed,
and, realising what’s at stake
I’m glad I am not yet dead.