  I’m going to sing you a simple song, To show that a king can do no wrong; A lay that is laden in every line With the grand old creed of “the right divine.” The merriest monarch of modern times Is the romping rex of these rambling rhymes: The beamishest boy of the bold, bad batch, The crack-crowned Kaiser of Colney Hatch. For many a year he played his pranks— He borrowed the balance of all the banks To build him a palace in every town, And when they were up he pulled them down. He sat on the throne, on days of state, With a coffee-pot jammed on his regal pate, And he showed his Court he could kiss his toes While he balanced his sceptre upon his nose. He danced a jig in the House of Peers, And offered to toss the lot for beers; And whenever a Cabinet Council sat He would make dirt-pies in the Premier’s hat. When the neighbouring monarchs came to call He would butter the steps and the marble hall; And when his visitors broke their legs He’d sit and he’d pelt them with hard-boiled eggs. He dressed his army in drawers and frocks, And little pink shoes and short white socks; And whenever he had a grand review He rode on a donkey painted blue. His coachman signed all the royal decrees, And he joined his footman in nightly sprees; He addressed his cook as “My dear old chap,” And in church he sat in his housemaid’s lap. And now that I’ve finished my simple song, If you say, “What whoppers!” you’ll just be wrong, As this isn’t a Lunatic Laureate’s lay— For the king was the King of Bavaria. THE END. |
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