The King's Shilling

The King’s Shilling

I wasn’t quite two, when draped as Cupid,

I went down with old-school pneumonia,

In the rain-swept fancy dress parade,

In Beech Avenue, Swindon, 1953.

I had a cold again on the day of the Queen’s funeral –

As I wandered pot-holed memory lane again:

My Christian names: Stuart Charles:

It was very nearly Charles Stuart,

In honour of the prince and heir to the throne,

Rather than the Jacobite rebel.

On my 21st birthday - the key of the door –

I was given a pewter tankard,

Its glass bottom allowing a toper

To spot the king’s shilling, surreptitiously

Dropped by some Stroud scarlet recruiting sergeant,

When trying to gull some poor rustic Hodge

Into the army and enlistment.

It still sits on a shelf beneath the stairs,

And as a Citizen rather than a subject,

I shall toast the country’s future today;

But I’ll not take the king’s shilling;

I’ll leave it sitting at the bottom of the pot,

Ignoring its circumferential text:

D.G. REG. F.D.

Citizens!

Shrink the monarchy.

Not the State.