ramblings and things
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.