Part 2
The sun shone bright over Windsor that day.
Two thousand, eighteen on the 19th of May.
The guests in their finery soaked up the euphoria.
Meghan knew no-one except, perhaps, Doria.
George Clooney was there and the Beckhams were seen.
Oprah completed the Hollywood dream.
“Oh, Harry,” shrieked Meghan, soon after the vows,
“The people adore me. Just look at the crowds!
They know I’m the answer, their wokest solution.
Their Goddess, their Queen of the MEG revolution.”
“Pipe down”, Harry said, as he waved from the carriage,
“dictating so soon at the start of our marriage.”
“Shut the f**k up,” Meghan hissed through a grin.
“If I want it I’ll get it, alright, now I’m in.
Don’t cross me, learn fast that it’s my game of thrones
or your next spicy chicken can roast on its own.”
So the rock ‘n’ roll royals began married life.
Harry simply adored his magnificent wife
as she walked-about peasants, like Lady Macbeth,
snarling muttered profanities under her breath.
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