Poem: Diana

The delightful princess was still alive when I wrote this, shaking her mane like a thoroughbred filly.


The princess regrets, she’s told the queen
Can’t make it at Christmas
Something to do with last minute invitations
to Aspen, where the lifestyle’s not so stilton-stilted

She much prefers her brie a little runny,
on a warmer plate
But supports the monarchy, oh my, yes and Charles
paints another landscape, stiffly upper-lipping

Castles too cold and dark for her, all that Chippendale
cracked with age, conversation dry as toast
and the shooting of all those driven-birds
The princess will be elsewhere, a driven-bird herself

Her smile and charm is entry fee among new royals
and who can blame her, but she supports the monarchy,
oh my, yes, admiring from afar
Expecting to be a different queen, in a different century

Too lively for a still life among those painted landscapes
And I bet she pulls it off, or dies trying
Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman's
poetry collection


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