Member Poem

His breakfast banquet lies in wait
while Majesty, it seems, sleeps late
beneath his regal gold duvet,
a farm-fresh brush of meadow hay.

We subjects loiter, watch his door,
pile star-cut treats on sawn-pine floor,
return to place with careful tread
within his splendid palace-shed.

One minute more, a shy face peeps;
George crawls towards his salad heaps,
in Dutch-marked gown, jet black and white,
which shimmers in the winter light.

His eyes shine gladly for his meal,
teeth clasp a carrot slice with zeal;
all Christmas, church choirs urge, ‘Rejoice!’,
but we prefer our guinea’s voice.