Forget
all of those al Qaeda big wigs, the
ones the White House bragged about
when originally bagged, who were busted out of Abu
Ghraib Prison in a made in Hollywood
rescue operation. Forget about a
mere Pope swarmed by crowds in Rio de Janerio in what looked like an
old Fiat from a seedy car rental
outfit. Forget poor Detroit, its bones about to be picked clean and sold to the lowest
bidder to be ground up for chicken feed.
Forget it all.
Apparently
the only thing of importance that happened on Monday was that Mrs. Mountbatten, an elderly World War II veteran (truck driver)
living on the public doll was presented a fine baby great grandson.
OK,
I get it that the old gal styles herself as Queen
Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God Queen of this Realm and of Her other
Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. She’s held a steady sinecure she will not
give up since 1953, likes matching pastel broad brimmed hats, suits, and purses,
and is awfully fond of Corgis.
The
baby’s mum is a pretty and pleasant young woman out of central casting named
Kate who is hitched to a balding gent who might get his Grandmother’s job if
she would ever do the decent thing and pack it in and giver her aging son a crack
at it first. Then, sometime near the
dawning of the 22nd Century if everyone
lives as long as the old woman—whose own mother lasted until she was 10—the
unsuspecting newborn might get it in turn.
Some
Brits are reportedly excited that
the Hanover/Windsor Dynasty is
secure for generations. These Brits
style themselves monarchists, or in
the opinion of many members of the embarrassingly lower classes, Twits.
On
this side of the ocean, where we fought to wars to get rid of those parasites and
keep them out, you would think that the birth would be of no particular
interest. You would be wrong. Apparently huge swaths of the tabloid purchasing American public, including those who grab their news from the wire
racks at Wal-Mart while dressed in leopard
print outfits six sizes too small, love the Royal family as much as the Kardasians and Honey Boo-Boo rolled into one.
So do generations of young girls infected at birth with Disneyprincesitis, an incurable
affliction.
With
a keen eye for their core demographic, the American media went all out with coverage
of the birth, which consisted mostly of pictures of crowds outside a rather
run-down looking hospital building, yammering British talking heads, and
frequent clips of the baby’s dead grandmother.
And no one could go more than three minutes without breathlessly
reporting that the babe is The Future
King of England.
Meaning
no ill will to the little nipper, that is a hell of a thing to wish on any
kid. Better he should grow up to muck
out sewers, or in deference to the family tradition of government employment, a
junior clerk in a minor ministry.
When
I think of the future King of England, I don’t think of current Prince in
Waiting or baby’s father, a noted model of comic opera uniforms. I think of an old song my Wobbly pals and I used to sing well
after midnight when the table at Glascott’s
Groggery in Chicago was strewn
with empty pitchers of beers and littered with shot glasses. As the hour of closing would be nearing, our
throats raw from hours of singing old Union
ballads, Irish Rebel songs, anarchist ditties, and obscure folk songs, someone would invariable
start the following song, which we would bellow loudly enough to rattle the
windows at Buckingham Palace. It went like this.
Bastard King of
England
Sung to the tune
of The
Irish Washerwoman
Oh, the
minstrels sing of an English King
Of many long
years ago,
He ruled his
land with an iron hand,
Though his mind
was weak and slow.
He loved to hunt
the royal stag,
Around the royal
wood,
But better by
far he loved to sit,
And pound the
royal pud.
Chorus
He was lousy and
dirty and covered in fleas,
The hair on his
balls hung down to his knees,
And he had his
women in twos and threes.
God bless the
Bastard King of England.
Now the Queen of
Spain was an amorous Jane,
And a sprightly
wench was she,
She longed to
fool with the royal tool,
From far across
the sea.
So she sent a
royal message,
With a royal
messenger,
To invite the
King of England down,
To spend the
night with her.
Chorus
Now ‘ol’ Philip
of France he heard by chance,
Within his royal
court,
And he swore, “She
loves my rival best,
Because my tool
is short,”
So he hurried
off to Spain,
Where he did the
deed again,
To give the
Queen a dose of clap,
To pass it on to
the Bastard King of England.
Chorus
When news of
this foul deed was heard,
Within the royal
halls,
The King he
swore by the royal whore,
He’d have to
Frenchman's balls.
He offered half
the royal purse,
And a piece of
the Queen Hortense,
To any British
subject,
Who could do the
King of France.
Chorus
So the noble
Duke of Middlesex,
He took himself
to France,
He swore he was
a fairy,
So the king let
drop his pants,
Then on Philip’s
dong he slipped a throng,
Leaped on his
horse and galloped along,
Dragging the
Frenchman back,
To merry old
England.
Chorus
When the
returned to London town,
Within fair
England’s shores,
Because of the
ride King Philip’s pride,
Was stretched a
yard or more.
And all the
whores in silken drawers,
Came down to
London town,
And shouted
round the battlements,
“To hell with
the British Crown.”
Chorus
And Philip alone
usurped the throne,
His scepter was
his royal bone,
With which he
ditched the Bastard King of England.
Chorus
Well, just maybe
a little historical error crept into the song.
But we liked its spirit. Consider
it yer lullaby, kid.
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