Monarchs of all they survey
Philip the Third and Trixie
share candlelit splendour
in each other’s arms,
the world kept at bay
with tin can alarms
and a shotgun.
Philip prays to the gods
of aristocracy to save
his home from the flames
of republicanism
as the house subsides,
inch by inch, into a grave
prepared by the NCB.
In his parallel universe
of penny farthings
and musical saws
he sees only family sacrifice,
abdication, the wheeled horrors
of tumbril and perambulator.
Servants begin to morph
into fee-paying visitors.
Trixie, it’s time to go.
A strong poem… I’m not sure the last line is as strong as the rest. V. interesting slant – monarchy, republicanism. The National Trust as the gods of aristocracy.
Very amusing, although as I understand it Philip was much less out of touch with reality than his elder brother Simon.