Meghan Markle’s Dress by Antony Owen

To clad a sister of Grenfell would not look as lovely as you.
An oak panelled council room disputes the two costs of blood and monetary,
a three-bar fire can keep the poor coin-warm and Grenfell had twenty-three tiers,
and a million tears, to dispute the two tiers, and precious tears shed of fire and water.

How very left wing of me.

To clad a red-blooded woman in a dress that could fireguard a thousand mere subjects,
I did the math over my cornflakes and very Un-Brexitly sighed at my patriotism,
hard to deny how the warmth of your glare billows into the cold at the Prince
not dissimilar to all the little princes and princesses asleep in the choky robes.

 How very body of the bird of me.

To keep a homeless man warm a rich boy can set fire to ten pound notes and guffaw,
the queen is burning in front of his face with the fat of her lowly animals
and his laughter is glowing unknowingly into an I-phone of a stranger,
look, I’ve found a province of England but cannot claim it with a flag.

How very bird song of me.

The dimming Sun is telling the alleged world of Meghan Markle’s ‘braless dress’.
I remembered a mime in Hyde Park wash away the face that paid her rent,
she lived like Rapunzel in a grey tower that an evil witch kept her in,
They smelt her hair in a different way that her lover did on Saturdays.

How very un-right wing of me.

I like being a citizen of the world and of nowhere as Theresa might decry.
I like Harry and I like Meghan but that dress makes the world look ugly.
In a few months you’ll light the selective tapers in Westminster Abbey,
pass the murderous frescoes in a beautiful dress and remember them.


How very human of me.

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