It’s Coronation Chicken time in Coronation Street.
Everyone is down at The Crown.
The flags are out and flying, tweeters strain to tweet,
Security cams are planted everywhere in town.
It will be a knees-up, a proper royal fling,
With loyal oaths in chorus to welcome in the King.
Oh Britain, land of Monarchs, all panoply and pomp,
The island may be sinking but we float.
Although we’re mostly paupers, the nation’s set to romp
While clinging to the sides of the boat.
It may be just a knees-up with shoelaces of string
But we will kick our heels up in honour of the King.
Every royal has his place, peers will find their niche,
The spectacle’s designed to overwhelm.
Some will feast on food-banks, some on royal quiche,
There’s feasting in the gutters of the realm.
Everything is ready now, time to don the bling.
Blow up the balloons, young man, pop one for the King.
We’re well equipped with princes in case we need a spare,
Our substitutes are warmed up on the bench,
With extra teams of royals, should we require an heir,
Plus junior ranks lined up in the trench.
Before the match the royal team will stand round in a ring.
The ref checks with the linesmen. Blows. It’s kick-off for the King.
George Szirtes’s twelfth book of poems, Reel (2004) won the T S Eliot Prize for which he has been twice shortlisted since. His latest is Fresh Out of the Sky (2021). His memoir The Photographer at Sixteen was awarded the James Tait Black Prize in 2020.
new boots and pantisocracies 