Touching on the Queen.

No one can ever cuddle the Queen
It’s really quite a shame.
If you gave her a shove
They’d take off your glove
And hurl it down a drain.

Wrap bodily parts around the monarch
If you want the third degree
And you may not stare
At her eye or her hair
And definitely not her knee.

No one can ever pat her hat,
It would be the most dreadful of wrongs.
If it’s all askew
It will just have to do
Till they fetch the ten-foot tongs.

No one can ever cuddle the Queen
It’s simply not allowed,
Whether happy and cheerful
Or saddened or tearful
She must stand alone in the crowd.

No one can ever prod at the Queen,
Not even a make-up girl
If the Christmas speech
Is just within reach
But her hair is out of curl.

There are certain exceptions to all of these rules,
Corgis can give her a lick,
They can roll on her chair
With their legs in the air
And tug at a carefully fetched stick.

Horses, of course, are a quite special case.
Specially trained teeth had Goodwill,
To grab at her riding tackle
If she fell off her side saddle
Galloping up a hill.

Another exception’s the springy state coach,
If bouncing out in a parade;
Were she boinged at a building
Postilions’d reach round the gilding
And flip her back in with a spade.

Because no one can touch the Queen
’s why the British have such sang froid.
It’s borne in our genes
So if we met the Queen
Her hand is the thing we’d avoid.

The Queen, you know, is allowed to touch us;
If not she’d get dreadfully bored.
She gives sashes, pins medals up,
Awards trophies and sporting cups
And flattens the knights with a sword.

If one were allowed to cuddle the Queen
They’d be all queuing up by the hour.
She’d be stroked and patted
And tousled and plaited
And both hands shaken
And possibly braken
And dandled and kissed
And infected and squished
And trodden and scrumped
And elbowed and thumped
And possibly, frequently,
Given the bumps
Till she sent everyone to the Tower.

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