The royals, they'll have jubilees,
with horses, bands and jets.
The throngs they fight to crowd the streets,
in cloud or sun or wets.

Celebs they have a glitter ball,
for only great and best.
If you’re not one, then you’re not there,
just read it in the press.

A club will have a meeting
The secretary will get it wrong,
the members' couldn’t care.

A company will AGM,
directors' pay to fore.
Shareholders' only want their cheque,
the rest of waffles bore.

The music crowd will pick a field,
with speakers big and black,
Party-goers wave their phones,
in noise and mud and yuk.

Ladies, they will join for lunch,
viragos who will plot.
With wine at hand and steely mind,
they'll control their family lot.

The men will just nip down the pub,
their woes to share abound.
in tear-soaked beer they'll sorrow more,
‘til closing time comes round.

But normal people top them all,
the planning isn’t hard.
With burgers, beer and Pimms we sit,
a party in our backyard.

[THE END]

© scrapyardsummer 2023