Bear Skin and scrambled eggs now stripped away,
Dress uniforms mothballed, medals in drawers,
HRH no longer formal today.
Like a whipped corgi, cowered on all fours,
Now banished to the proletariat,
Haunted as he drives to secret retreat,
Actions will come out, bet your house on that,
Behind scenes there will always be more meat
To flesh out dusty scandal skeletons,
Whilst we watch as we ride our Pelatons.
Dark cupboards, sticky cobweb filled corners,
Crammed with depraved rumours and back stairs tales.
Such decadence, ascribed to those former
Firm favourites, into open does sail.
Beyond The Pale sordid meeja dams burst,
Petty editors scrap to get in first.

Harry Rogers In The Yellow Room, 14th January, 2022.


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