There was panic at Westminster Abbey of the kind the Brits do so well,
an orderly kind of upheaval and calmness so no-one could tell
that the maples and hornbeams, though lovely, could hardly fit through the door
and the home of a nesting blackbird bounced twice before hitting the floor.
The trumpeters practised their fanfare spurred on by the listening crowd,
it was the last, the final rehearsal, they stood upright, stately, proud.
Bystanders outside the Abbey cheered and waved little union jacks,
it was twenty four hours to the wedding but spending the night on their backs
on a cold and hard concrete pavement, meant they limbered up when they could,
so they waved and they stamped and applauded just where they stood.
Elgar was still in waiting but the crowds were beginning to wain,
yes they loved all the pomp and ceremony but they'd been told it was going to rain.
So they unrolled tents and brollies, creating a most colourful sight,
but as the music rose to a crescendo, they rolled over and said gooodnight.
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