To be born into royalty is some sort of curse
But marrying the Firm is infinitely worse.
From birth you are told you have to be stoic
But voluntarily joining is really heroic.
No cursing, no crying, the restraint of a saint
While everywhere smells of bleach and fresh paint.
You may avoid all that scrimping and saving
But it takes years of practice to master the waving.
One very important lesson you’ll learn
Is to refrain from farting until it’s your turn.
As a Royal you’ve evolved to wear excess ermine
And stand in the rain for hours, shooting vermin.
You may feel awkward as you pull on your tights
But at least you’ll never have to wait at the lights.
You’ll eventually weary of a life being gazed on
Surrounded by flunkies for every occasion.
And it hurts when you realise, whether Heir or the Spare
That most of the public just don’t really care.
Harry and Megan, William and Kate
Please abdicate now, before it’s too late.