The guests were in the chapel, the Beckhams were outside,
The groom was at the alter, but the gig did miss a bride.
Oh, where is Kate, the ushers said, we’ve searched Westminster Street,
We hope she’ll make the wedding and not suffer from cold feet.
But then there came a messenger, clutched in his hands a note,
The wedding guests they beat their breasts and wondered what she wrote.
“Dear Wills, my fluffy bunny boy, alas I cannot marry,
I don’t want this royal wedding, I’m going off with Harry!”