Do they have Sunday fry ups at the palace,

A little kitchen in which they can slum,

Liz in her head scarf and curlers

Phil dressed like an unshaven bum.

In his vest and pj bottoms

Trodden down slippers on his feet,
Liz in a Woolies dressing gown

Just A little more tidy and neat.

Frying pan there on the table

Resting on yesterday's Sun

Full of tomato and bacon dip

Which Phil mops up with his bun.

Tea pot stands at Lizzies elbow for

She likes to pour and be mother

A Pint of sterry in its bottle,

On Sundays she won't use any other.

Phil drinks his tea NATO standard,

That's milk with two sugars in,

Occasionally if a little hung over
Topped up with Gordon's Gin.

They share a copy of the Sunday Mirror

For austerity days arent over yet

And Philip likes their racing tipster

When he slips on his odd each way bet.

Radio 4 blasts out from the sideboard

The Archers Sunday omnibus edition

With Eddie and Old Joe Grundy both 

Muttering and chuntering sedition.

They don't do this every Sunday

Just now and again cos it gives

A bit of an idea, they think, of how

The other half, the working class, lives.

Phil gives a belch of appreciation

As Liz rings her little silver bell

She's gone and done all  the cooking

She ain't gonna clear up as well.

The under butler and his two tweenies

Clear and swab the little  table down

As  Lizzie changes in her bedroom

To formal dress with her Sunday crown.

She endures these occasional fry ups

Which she doesn't enjoy so very much

But feels she has to make this effort

Just to try and keep in touch.

For she's the ruler of her people

And although she's filthy rich

She would hate them all to think

She was just an unfeeling bitch.

Now she’s done her stint in the kitchen,

And given Philip a right royal fry,

Played hell with calories and colesterol

She reflects with her heartfelt sigh.

She smiles with appreciation

As the National Anthem plays:

She's done her duty slumming

Now it's back to her right royal ways.