Alas! Poor England!

I throw on my veil.
I don my sorrow
Take no crumpets nor callers
Today nor tomorrow
(If a morrow should rise
Through sobbing skies.)

Instead, knowing me,
I will slurp down a tea
Laced with rum's golden jiggers
For the goals undelivered.



Aaah, I never did think I would see the day my trusty butler, tini-shaker & salad tosser, Edward, would avail himself of my swooning couch, but I can forgive him this one time, do you not think, Dear Lady U?

I will promptly cross the Beckhams off my summer cocktail list. That will teach him to do injuries while High Matters of International Prestige are at Stake.