The pallid frost of her skin 

shone a winter's moonlight 

Her tributaries of ocean blue

fell tranquil 

Gently sagging into noble retirement 

Her last breath 

fondly drifting through familiar chambers, 

extinguishing each final lustre 

of  home

It groaned a sweet goodbye 

Time to rest, ma'am 

Time to rest

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Our lily of the valley

Has shed her petals free

To drift upon the winds of time

In her own sweet Galilee 

The Mother of our nation

So long its beating heart 

Offers her earthly shell to rest

For her soul must now depart

So free it roams, through gilded vale

And bonny lochs & moors

Past stag & hare, & fragrant fayre 

To dusk's misty allures 

Where ...

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You are a woman,

beautiful,

      black,

   God’s masterpiece,

    created with

    majestic power

       and divinity—

   The type of woman

   who could never

          be tamed

                           or possessed.

   One deserving of

 love, respect,

and civility.

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Don't wear contact lenses 
Your eyes are my Ocean
Let me feel your lovely senses 
And see you my Queen. 

Don't use makeup material
Just be same as you are
Rosy cheeks are really natural 
looks for me as star.

Don't cut your shiny hair 
I love it to become so long 
Set free your hair to air 
And let me enjoy the song.
 

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King 1 - Queen 2

Wath - Queen of Villages reigned

in her flower garden

her turnip grubbing fields

her pig pens and her byres

subjects tugging forelocks

native speech a country slide

years before the pits

-

When Wigan coalpits died

the King - black in workings underground

emerged in Wath to drag her subjects down

drawing men across the border

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Two ladies, late eighties: one flicking

the pages of Majesty magazine

to pass the time, but still a believer;

the other preparing to sail down

the Thames in a royal barge. 

Yachts, palaces, castles, state visits,

breakfast cereal in Tupperware cartons.

Happy holidays in the Isles of Scilly,

bereavement, confusion, incontinence.

One paid her care home fees by se...

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"Nice to see you

To see you nice".

Tip-tapping in waistcoats;

On the noble steed that is

Tess Daly.

Wielding his chin

Like a sabre,

And winning the nation's

Favour, "'Cos

That's the name of the game".

He's not a king,

Queen or Jack.

He's not even "higher

Or lower" - he's a knight!

Bruce Forsyth:

Knight of t...

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