Monday, 9 May 2011
Royalty and the Poet
'Death, ruin, ruin, death, in the end are we not all lost?'
'And that was supposed to cheer me up was it?' said Queen Phoebe.
'I've got others,' replied Horace.
And he waved a large sheaf of poems.
'Any limericks?' asked Queen Phoebe.
'Erm...not as such,' replied Horace.
'Probably give it a miss then,' said Queen Phoebe.
'I could massage your feet if you like?' suggested Horace. 'I do Norma's hooves sometimes if she's been out for a long walk.'
Queen Phoebe looked at her feet.
'One can't help thinking there might be a degree of difference between royal toesies and Norma's hooves,' she said, '...with all due respect to Norma.'
'She has very delicate hooves,' remarked Horace, 'I have to be careful.'
'Hmm,' said Queen Phoebe, 'I guess I'm just not in the mood. It's surprising how losing an extremely expensive, solid gold, sentiment encrusted, royal type crown can put you right off that sort of thing.'
'Oh well!' replied Horace. 'Still, if I was you, I wouldn't worry too much about it.'
'Really?' said Queen Phoebe.
'Really,' replied Horace, 'after all, even as we speak, my chums are carrying out the most professional investigation that you could possibly imagine.'