Oh Queenie, how the horses mope,
Tugging at the royal rope,
Solemn as they trudge along,
Listening to your funeral song.
Oh Queenie, how we miss your smile,
As those horses walk their mile,
And the troops look grimly sad
In their regal-attire clad.
Ah, Queenie, don’t know if you know,
I never actually saw that show,
But turned it off in grim dismay
Since T.V’s rearranged today.
Queenie, I believe you were
Married to a Royal Sir
And walked around within the Blitz
Loving Englanders to Bitz.
I understand you had some wealth
Which probably kept you in good health,
And that you died within your sleep -
Enough to make most people weep.
Oh! Queenie-person, I’m not sad,
I hope that wouldn’t make you mad -
An easy life and that’s for sure,
Broken by a sedate war.
Oh Queenie, love, no disrespect,
The T.V schedules are a wreck,
And croccy tears are fast aflowing,
Maudlin, false, as queues keep growing.
The British now are at their best,
As your body’s laid to rest,
Queuing up to see for free
What we all love – ceremony.
Oh Queenie, Queenie, why we mourn
Is for a past that has long gorn -
A simpler time, without the need
For increasingly high speed.
Queenie Dear, Oh Queen My Love,
You’re in that palace up above,
Whilst here on earth we muddle by,
Aware for a moment one day we’ll die.
And as we realise we won’t last,
We grieve for ourselves and for what’s passed -
And though we knew you distantly
Your death is no catastrophe.
Farewell then, and farewell dreams
Of life in gentle slo-mo scenes,
And welcome back reality,
In front of my switched-off T.V.
2002
Humorous poem about the funeral of the Queen Mother
