I saw Prince Andrew in Pizza Express
at the Metro Centre in Gateshead.
He had the Pollo Forza, with an extra topping
of Kobe beef and oysters,
and a side order of foie gras
lightly dusted in saffron,
washed down with a bottle of Château d’Yquem,
and for dessert,
truffles rolled in the finest Italian chocolate.
By the time he’d finished he was 
sweating profusely.
The waiter said it was on the house,
on account of all he does for the country.

I saw Prince Andrew in Pizza Express
at Trinity Walk in Wakefield.
He had the Barbacoa, with an extra topping
of wealth accrued by exploiting the peasantry,
and a side order of 10%
of the county’s annual produce,
washed down with the tears of the widows of soldiers killed in the hundred years’ war,
and for dessert,
the Droit de Seigneur.
By the time he’d finished he was 
loudly proclaiming his family’s divine right to rule.
The waiter said it was on the house,
and something unspecific about tourism.

I saw Prince Andrew in Pizza Express
at Teesside Park in Stockton.
He had the Sloppy Giuseppe, with an extra topping
of plunder from Africa and the Indian subcontinent,
and a side order of confiscated gold
from the dissolution of the monasteries, 
washed down with the blood of rebels executed during the Mau Mau Uprising,
and for dessert,
strawberry ice cream.
By the time he’d finished he was 
arguing the unfairness of judging the current ruling class by the actions of its predecessors.
The waitress charged him double.
I think she was Argentinian.

I don’t like Prince Andrew, or Pizza Express.
I very rarely go there.
That’s why I remember it all
so distinctly.