The duchess and the dweeb
couldn’t seem to leave, the
palace without burning it down
on the way out.
“If we can’t have nice things,”
“We really don’t want to whinge,”
“But you know, it’s privacy,” they say.
Then they got in the Rolls Royce,
and drove away,
heading across the pond
where the sun shines all day long,
where they could say and do whatever they like,
firing their grapes of wrath back home
whenever they feel they are being ignored
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