To post of Poet
Laureate I came,
To frame the Nation’s thoughts in
clever verse.
In Britain, mine’s a role of modest
fame,
The other laureate, he fares much worse.
Drowned sorrows are not regal for a Queen,
The Boozer Laureate fulfils this role.
When sadness might the Monarch’s
state demean,
His glass, vicarious, must her console.
Think of this Drinking Laureate as he
Gets rat-arsed for her Royal Majesty.In ninety-two the BL’s
skills seemed fit,
Sarah and Andrew, their own ways embark.
Dom Per-i-gnon White Gold, the BL hit,
Then through came the divorce of Anne and
Mark.
Old Windsor Castle burned with yellow
flame;
Di-a-na, her True Stor-y was
renowned;
The spilt of Charles and Di then shortly
came -
Pernod-Ricard Per-ri-er-Jouet, downed.
The BL stayed loy-al-ly on the piss.
The Queen survived An-nus Hor-ri-bi-lis.
Deep in the Palace
cellars, on his knees,
The BL, for the Monarch, slumps, stone
drunk.
As Philip insults foreign dignitaries,
Methuselas of Cristal Brut are sunk.
When Di died, Krug was shipped in by the
crate.
Such selfless dedication we forget.
Official secrets, BLs can’t relate,
Though Her Majesty recalls her debt.
A knighthood in the Honours he might see
For Queen and the French champaign
industry.
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