Copyright: The Fromageers.
And now, the Endgame is done,
We spilled the tea,
To Omid Scobie.
The royals are on the run,
Their only fans?
Racists and fogeys.
And yet, we miss the pomp,
We miss the crowds,
We miss the freebies.
So please,
Let us back in,
We're sick of our way.
We tried, on Spotify,
Told porky pies,,
To Penguin Random.
NetFlix,
And car park pics,
We looked like dicks,
And lost our fandom.
We yearn,
For uniform,
For duties royal,
Without a pay day.
We'll cut,
Ribbons in Hull,
We're sick of our way.
[Crescendo]
For Willie is bald, what has he got?
(Ok a box, at Royal Ascot.)
And Kate's no good at speaking gigs,
Of self promotion like The Tig,
Or crying tears from left eyelid,
They can't do our way.
[Piano]
Sixteen,
Bathrooms to clean,
Is far too much,
In this our mansion.
The staff,
Leave in a huff,
So many aides,
Too much to mention.
Court staff,
Well how we'd laugh,
They worked so hard
But did we pay them?
Not us,
The public purse,
We miss free lackeys.
[Crescendo]
A-v -iation,
Legends are we,
Ripples of Hope,
Don't come for free.
We'll take the gigs,
The Wales' can't do.
Who needs a job,
It's us, that's who.
Archewell and Sussex,
Is just poo.
We're sick of ouuuuuur waaaaaay.