Why I Am a Monarchist

I have no ear for tales of kings
No eye for gorgeous palaces.
All I can see is squandering
Of little peoples’ pittances.

Pennants and crests are pretty sights
But never could I understand
Their hues reserved for lords and knights
And not the diggers of the land.

And though I'd fall on bended knee
For any noble, prince, or squire,
I'd do it for sheer chivalry
And not to lift him any higher.

And yet, for all my scorn for pomp,
My fealty to the common man
The muscles in my throat still clamp
At that mere word “republican”.

Not for the man of flesh-and-blood
Who parks his rump upon a throne
But for the monarch made of wood,
The princess of a painted town.

Here's to the king, God bless his soul,

Because King Arthur wore a crown
And King Canute and Old King Cole
And the King's Arms in every town.

Here's to the King, whose coat of arms
Look splendid on the pickle jar.
Here's to the Queen, whose lambent charms
Are most apparent from afar.

You tell me that a man's a man;
Amen to that! A man can stand
(As some mere watchword never can)
For all the men of all the land.

Hurray for Liberty, indeed,

But Liberty was never drunk
Or rode upon a chestnut steed
Or had to take the lower bunk.

For all the pomp, for all the sham,
My heart still feels that ancient tug–
Not for the glitz of Buckingham
But the chipped coronation mug.