Arts
The Holyrood Garden PartyThey wait,In the undiscriminating queue,Each clutching A sovereign's invitation,On a white embossed And weighty card,That has, that very morning, Been ceremoniously removedFrom its honoured place,To call them here,The uncomfortably suited,And the morning suited,The unfascinating fascinators,The wide brims and the pillboxes,The high street combinationsThe designer labels,The Highland dress And Buddhist robes,The clashing of the colours,The tightness of the shoes,The privileged by birth,And those who work the earth,The provost and the cook,The postman and the duke,Each offers up their name,And passes throughThe watchful royal gates,To walk, gratefully, For a single afternoon,Upon forbidden Grass.