The Queen of England nearly ran me over
(was thinking) I guess she don’t like my song
But, that’s okay I’m not so fond of her driving skills
Or her lime green hat & what was that?
A granny panty thong?
And, was she blowing the Duke
Or just smoking a bong?
Okay, here's the story, morning glory.
I was walking on the grass & headin’ to the palace
I was high on weed & I was thinking ‘bout Alice
Didn’t know the queen was out for her daily afternoon drunk drive.
Checking out the sights, I coulda used some sleep
Was dreamin’ about naptime & the global elite
It’s okay to drive in the UK, they say…until you’re 105.
A blue-blooded redneck, a drag racing queen
A few exaggerated metaphors & a crack smoking fiend
I was just walking where the signs said to be.
Don’t know why she was so rude & unpleasant
I heard her cry out, “You stupid peasant.”
Could that really be her majesty talkin’ to me?
And then a different voice in my head said this:
“The booty’s loose on her caboose,
I plunder her treasure & come for her pleasure
Tuggin’ on her reigns & fillin’ her storm drains
I make it rain.”
And then some other voice in my head said this:
Her drunken Highness couldn’t be talking to me.
And I’m thinking…
Well, it’s not quite like shape-shifting elder porn
Just an up-close tourist money shot of Queen Lizzie.
On video, getting’ her Jaguar’s tires all-a-squealin’
Rims spinnin’… Such a strange event, got me feelin’ dizzy.
Obey all rules in the UK and stay on the path, the signs all say
And, “No Bikes!” Yikes, I was thinking…
It didn’t say “No Car!”
And then I thought of how I love all beer except for Guinness
Thirsty, and how I wished the tour was almost finished
Could I get a cold one, I wondered? Did the palace lobby have a bar?
I didn’t want no hassle from the castle
And, it never occurred to me the queen drove a Jag.
Seemed almost special, like a four-leaf clover
When her drunken Highness nearly ran me over
And, then I thought how this might be common & I better not brag.
Dreaming of a holy grail filled with Bass
& a sofa for my tired ass at the end of this path
I think they call them Chesterfields here, my dear
Bi-polar banter in my head & my inner ear.
Could probably figure out the probabilities of there being beer
If I knew math.
Is that bat shit on that bell, I can’t tell?
Does Big Ben got a clock that tolls for thee?
And, if it tolls for thee, does that mean it also tolls for me?
Or Billy Idol? Should I give a rebel yell?
Did Willie Nelson get high atop the Buckingham roof?
And scribble out a message, “I got stoned here and that’s the truth.” ??
Does the royal family frown on grafitti?
Do they sell postcards ‘cause they’re kinda needy?
Are the crown jewels all in hock at the … City of London Oil & Gold Pawn Shop?
It’s in Skolnick’s Report, but the hedge fund managers have the proof.
Slow down, your drunken Highness. Why don’t you let the Marmaduke of Earl drive?
Or the Earl of Duke, or whatever…
De-evolution. This song degenerates by the word.
Into metaphors.
For reasons like “no reason.”
Absurd word turds.
Similes.
Similar.
To you and me.
Moral of the story: When in London, wear a helmet. And don’t bow to the queen.
Keep an eye on her.
If ya know what I mean?
