The Garden Party

I met the Queen, she asked me how I'd been,
a writer of the day should be heard and not seen,
'Mr. Andrew, I don't understand everything you say,
my corgi ate your book, became dog-eared yesterday.

I trolled around the palace manicured gardens,
to meet others is essential as my resolve hardens,
poet laureates emerged right out of the bushes,
ready for recognition as usual and given fame pushes.

The gardener was more interesting, pruning looming,
but with poetry, he didn't really know where to begin;
ironically, he was good with the afterlife, plants that is,
new seasons which re-blossomed and opened with a kiss.

I finished my vol-au-vent and met poet Andrew Merton,
he said: 'Dear boy, read your work - you do go on and on.'