It may seem insincere to say I have the greatest respect for the Royal Family, but financial debates aside, I believe they all, and especially Her Majesty, have worked hard on behalf of charities, and for our country.
Two other facts are pertinent, however:
Firstly, The Queen is still a human being, Her Royal Biology no different from our own.
Secondly, when writing a poem about bodily wind, the more upper-class, and auguste the personage concerned, the funnier it is. It is simply one of the eternal rules of comedy.
So, this is not an attack on the Queen’s Royal Person, but rather an acknowledgement of the paradox that is royalty: that according to ancient tradition* they are God’s Appointed, sent to rule over, and take care of us, and yet, they are also human, and so subject to all of the daily comedies and tragedies of which the human condition consists.
So I offer, this, my humble poetic tribute to the humanity of our Queen, and hope that I may prevail upon the Royal Sense-of-Humour, not to hold this against me when one day, God willing, I will be nominated for a Knighthood.
Best read aloud in your very best approximation of the Queen’s own Voice: just click on the video above if you need some practice…
If the Queen were to consider the gas,
Which came out of Her human ass,
This gross injustice She could not let pass:
That it is more tolerated from a Lad, than a Lass.
Her quickest is the ‘fwip’,
Most common on the foreign Family Trip;
For in polite company One can quip,
“T’was not Me, but Hubby, that let rip!”
A little longer is the ‘trump’,
To exit from One’s Regal Rump,
With a Movie Horribilis sound like a ‘bump’,
It’s vibration causes the nervous to jump.
Next, there is the ‘blart’,
Causing One’s bottom cheeks to part,
In a sound that from its start,
Warms the Undies, but not the heart.
Exuded slowly is the ‘fffssssssss’,
Expelled with a Champagne-like hiss.
Do not move too much or One will wish,
One had never imbibed Champers with fish.
Legumes build toward the ‘fwubble’,
Like an earthquake this spells trouble:
The Palace could be rendered to rubble,
For even bath water cannot mask its vast bubble.
Most despicable! Clinging, pervasive, and ever-ready;
It’s spread: stealthy, oozing and steady.
It’s venenous fumes, when breathed, are so heady,
When One succumbs to the ‘silent but deadly’.
A Regal ‘paaarrrp’ like a tuba’s moan,
Is the goal of One’s constipated groans.
With success, One’s musicality is shown;
Amplified by the bowl of One’s White Porcelain Throne.
* N.B. I have little doubt that the Medieval concept of Divine Ruler is now considered somewhat inaccurate, and outmoded, even by our appointed Divine Ruler, the Queen herself.
Gaseous Emissions from The Queen’s Regal Posterior: A Poem by T. James © November, 2011.