god slaves the queen

up on a tight skinned horse drawn
with charcoal pens and pepper inks
carriages with fine wood wheels twirl rims steel
feel the rumble in her seat the pants poopy, no longer
neat the grace of god and the servants fine tact, a
crystal ball chandelier balancing act

and where fore to behold but rudolph and the six reingdeer made bold
by whisky and bourbon and american spirits, sunk their post velvet
antlers deep in the reigning soveirgns post-magnificient bottom,
so she went bottoms up to the chears of the anthem
the people who swerved midnight to dawn, slobbering away
with the age old songs, over bridges and card games and salmon tartar
I scarecely could tell them apart from afar from a wavering mob
a beach of walrusus eachoneofthem splat, and with great gobs of goo spat back
whole cans of british sprat, like the good hobbits of books they have little ears
which turn up when you mention the queen's long career is as wide as her rear.