Who's the Laziest in the Land?

She breathes in. Her breast broadens.
There's no steadier seaborne liner than Liz.
Her stern is inert, her tone is earnest.
As she inhales the leaden air,
one realizes she doesn't do showbiz.

“When one is an isolated or reliant,
elder resident... when one has had a hard, lean winter
and the weather has been wet... a hot tea heartens one....”.

Liz orates, no basher berates,
no rebels rant or riot here.
We boneheads bow or stare in awe,
the Earth beholds the sober bore.
The whiniest letdown, the idlest blather,
the blandest blither, she drones and dithers.
Don't the lowbred hate and loathe her?
How's it no one here's in a lather?

Is there a reason on the breadline
to listen to her downbeat, desolate bleats?
Then we read it in the headlines,
in sleazoid tabloid and broadsheet.
It's no treason not to want to hear it on the radio.
Her hairdo is now rinsable, we heard it said in stereo.

Who's the Laziest in the Land?

Then there's her idolaters,
their zealotries are bold and brazen.
Able to besot a tribe,
the Windsor brand is sold and blazoned
on tea towels, bowls and banderoles,
sweaters, tins and bandoleers,
on dishware, bedrails, toenails too.
I saw the head on a biro
and the behind... on a wristband.

What's it based on? Is it birth?
What reason to relate to her?
As an idol is she Solid?
I heard she's rather slow and stolid.
A slender bride, she twined and teased
and waltzed and twirled and lit the world.
Now she wanes, she's lost her zest,
this Liz is not the zaniest.

Who's the laziest?

And she isn't whiter than snow,
she's tarnished with a sin or two.
It has been said in an aside:
there's a shadier side to how Di died.

Oh how I wish to hedonize her
with absinthe and a nice sweet weed
and on said weed she'd do a show
to barons, earls and senior aides.
She'd bare her arse to lords and nobles,
stand astride a snob in tweed,
debase the whole elite in one
in the bawdiest strobe-lit waterbed.

Who's the laziest, who's the laziest in the land?

I'd sell her tosh and eternal lies.
I'd share her wealth with the whole darn isle.
She doesn't need an airshow here,
a new horse there, another hat to wear.
With what she owns we'd do a neat trade,
we'd lend a load to those in debt.
We'd aid the winos with no shelter,
her shed alone is wider than a hotel!

And as she bloats on a dozen dates
and wines and dines and dozes late,
does she wonder, Elizabeth Windsor,
'who's the laziest in the land?'
The answer doesn't dawn on her,
realities aren't realized as
she is hailed as a bastion,
a laster and a shrewd old bird.

I don't behead her or dethrone her,
slide a blade below the belt.
Instead I tread on and disown her.
This is how the blow is dealt.
And those who snarl “her end is near”,
beware the son with the bendiest ears.
He need not be desirable,
he's the heir it's not deniable.