Gordon G Hall
Writer and Neo-Philhellene

Poetry for Royalty



I doubt you planned it should happen that way,
Though pickings so powerful, trappings so rich
Wed you to the Firm, but you did not stay
You simpering coy-faced, burdensome bitch.
Prince-shackled you strove to exert your will
Upstaging your hapless and tongue-tied mate.
You dressed yourself up and they snapped their fill,
A media frenzy of love and hate.

You produced your first son and then a spare.
You played with us, woed us, kidnapped our hearts,
You cuckolded him for whom you should care,
And there on telly you played Queen of Tarts.

Dead as a Dodi your days were a farce,
In life, as in death, a foul Underpass.


I was innocence, child-like purity,
Victim of Edinburgh, virgin not beast.
Lonely bride caged in harsh morality,
Engaging morsel for gross media feast.
My love was true, not "whatever that is",
A marriage holds two, but a mistress makes three.
My indiscretions: cries from a crisis
The Firm - as ice. The Horribilis - me.

Queen of Hearts broken, lost causes tended,
I was forced, divorced, and hung out to dry.
In the limelight with Harrods' intended
Playboy for Princess was one in their eye!

Killing conspiracy breaks the impasse
Lets them ignore my life's sad Underpass



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