That night in claridges there was magic in the air

the queen mother, the queen mother, the queen mother was there,

a band reflected mahogany and brass

in the glittering walls that were faced in glass.

 

Nostalgia was served with the unctuous strains

of cole porter, berlin, for the starters and mains.

Nothing had changed in the waltz of kings

and none of the tunes were my favourite things.

 

In the looking glass room the story unfurled

of a privileged liverish aquarium world,

a list of pre - specified tunes was displayed

a writ would ensue if disobeyed.

 

The cost of the music was never defrayed

but the bandleader said she'd be gone by ten

then we can play our own repertoire,

but the chimes of big ben rang on at twelve,

 

and still she was royally entertained

that cosmic royal pressure maintained.

 

Finally, stiffly she left the room then

a sense of relief like an emptying womb,

the ghosts of the past in an endless train

of carriages at claridges

bound for park lane.