He was coming towards me in his royal buggy,
His hair already by Sassoon, his diaper by Huggy,
Who are you, friend? I asked in the eerie light,
He said, I’m the royal baby that shall be born tonight.
Shouldn’t you be a dead German, I ask in the greenish glow,
Bearing a striking resemblance to me, me old bro?
But the baby merely gurgles and shakes his head,
I am the ghost of monarchy yet to be, I’m unborn, not dead.
I have come here to meet you in this dark and spooky tunnel,
To get a preview on this life before I descend the funnel.
So tell me, friend, he ponders, what do I have in store?
I tell him, TV, Hello Magazine, gossip columns, the internet, more.
Pretty shitty deal, then, he says with contrition,
I’ve got the media, you’ve got the coalition.