Three Kings

A King of Earth in godly realm arose

With lairy Queen Consort in pantyhose.

Wangaratta’s Earl of Loudoun held spurs

Of gold and velvet (since you’re wondering.)

We don’t know how Charlie’s going to go

But he did concur when Kerr called time, so…

We could raise a glass instead to remember Gough.

Today, the G-G decides when we’re off

To war. So maybe things are getting worse.

Ever get that foreboding?

A King of Laughter dressed himself as she.

In younger days, he liked a drink or three.

A prize in his name – his global cachet

As Australia’s cultural attaché –

Was given, then withdrawn; his prejudices deemed

Amiss, since gender was his comic theme.

And those he’d raised when he was strong; they, meek?

They fled from him, that sometime did him seek.

A new fashion of forsaking.

A King of Air beguiled the Trumpist horde.

A hate magnet for an audience, bored

With the Beltway, entitled, mad as hell;

Then, outfoxed by his own malicious emails, fell.

Dominion won. Surprise! He came untucked.

Cost Murdoch, and you’re seriously fucked.

Strangely, back in Blighty, a flame-haired Wade

Got away with it, dodged blame for phone-hack.

Harry sued, but the King called off the pack.

What can there be on him, besides gold braid?

No day off work for crowning old Jug-Ears.

Perhaps there’ll be a long weekend next year.

Commemorative double demerits will apply.

Still, at least we got a Crown emoji

#Coronation – and a chocolate bust.

So pass the Duchy ‘pon the left hand side.

If the Waleses don’t get it, the Sussexes must.

Just never, ever mention Di, who died.

Then there’s that thrice-anointed name: Chazza, Chas, Chuck.

The first one lost his head in dire defeat.

The second, once restored, pretended to the feat

Of curing scrofula with regal touch.

A nominative-determinist augury of strife?

And will the subjects tolerate that second wife?

Bazza was remembered for “upending cultural cringe”.

Away with lame, home-grown classical ‘takes’

(But soft – what wind in yonder dunny breaks?)

And begone with toffee-nosed pommy whinge.

He “brought an astringent and anarchic

Australian theatre to the world” instead.

“Goodnight Possums”, his wondrous valedic-

tion: a part of him that’ll never quite be dead.

Carlson’s lies were legion and egregious,

Cutting down to size the wokerati;

Riling up the viewers with confected racial grievance

To support the Elephantine Party.

But hold. Freedom for Assange was one of Tucker’s issues.

Leaving Cuba to the Cubans was another.

Maybe they’re what got him into bother.

Commentators all lined up to diss you,

TC, but even tedious argument, of insidious intent

Can lead us to some interesting questions.

I can show you something different from either your morning podcast talking beside you

Or your evening chatshow rising to meet you.

I can show you fear on a smartphone screen.

And breathe. No man is an island, Donne said

(He forgot the Isle of Man.) So where can we head

For some common theme in these overlapping tales?

What hope create, before our courage fails?

Barry disaligned, Tucker realigned.

Shall we and CRIII prove misaligned?

One’s passed, one’s deposed and One’s on the throne.

Might he be the last? Surely as we raise

Our Voice, we can speak for ourselves alone?

We can’t all be Kings: there the problem lies.

An earth of all living things holds us in embrace.

We belong to it, not contrariwise.

So why not seize the day, stand tall before the sun

And start a new story, open to everyone?