Prince Andrew - Duke of York, Earl of Inverness, and Baron Killyleagh - really is the perfect example of how meaningless and outdated all these titles have become.
I asked ChatGPT to mimic the style of the Poet Laureate Simon Armitage for the poem he will never write but he should.
Randy Andy: a portrait in scandal
He flew in on diplomacy—flag, cocktail, promise—
then turned Crown‑duty into porno,
a carousel of forty women—maybe more—
a revolving door of bodies in taxpayer‑funded rooms.
Each exit matched by an entrance:
“one leaves, another arrives,” even hotel staff whispered in disbelief.
Epstein toasted him—“serial sex addict”—
and crowned him “kinkier” than the king of kink himself.
He was Randy Andy even at school—off‑colour jokes for a legend in the making.
He slept with models, politicians, bartenders—with the world as his prey.
Matchmakers fed him access. He chose.
They came. He used.
Then ghosted them back to London.
He claimed amnesia in courtrooms and cough‑drops before cameras—
“I don’t remember,” “I don’t sweat,” “I never hugged her.”
Proving only that entitlement buries memory deep.
The Royal Lodge—no longer a refuge, but a mausoleum of privilege.
Stripped of patronage, stripped of PR—but never stripped of title.
Let that sink in:
A man accused of rape, of trafficking,
settled lawsuits for millions,
and still lives off Crown largesse,
resilient to disgrace.
In the #MeToo era, silence is complicity.
Silence is the crown he never earned.