by Stephen Gold

“UK Ministers stand by invitation for Trump to visit King Charles”
—The Times

It seems, despite one’s lofty station,
In order to protect one’s nation,
One has to hold one’s noble nose,
Try not to curl one’s stately toes,
And welcome “warmly” to one’s palace
An orange blob of bile and malice.

So, though I know it won’t be pleasant
To butter up this preening peasant,
I’ll grit my teeth, extend my hand,
Bring out the troops, the coach, the band,
And with Britannia’s dearest pal,
Ride arm-in-arm along the Mall.

Alas, it has to be this way.
Thank God it’s only for a day!
To be a king can be a curse,
But I suppose it could be worse,
For soon, the time will come, I fear,
To do the same for Vladimir.