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The day The Queen passed through our town,
the council took the dog bins down.
All round the park and harbour wall,
they marched on in and took them all.

Important, in their dayglo vests,
plastic name-tags on their chests,
they proudly strutted, preened and basked
in the glory of their task.

By six thirty they were done;
the bins had vanished, every one,
leaving their supporting posts
standing bare like rusting ghosts.

Now, my dog's not a monarchist,
I'd say, more of an anarchist.
So, when he knows he needs a pony
he doesn't stand on ceremony.

There he was, face proudly beaming;
there lay his download, gently steaming
by the entrance of the dark
but dawning, empty, bin-less park.

Then, beside the Bowls Club hut,
I spied upon a post’s bare strut,
where a bright red bin had been,
a single bag in perfumed green.

That evening on the TV news,
as The Queen admired the views,
I could just make out the sight
of something multi-hued and bright.

There, in the dismal winter gloom,
vivid, light, as if in bloom,
hanging from a post like flags:
gay festoons of coloured bags.