You’re a good egg, Lilibet and we’ve grown up with you all our lives. In an era not long gone Lilibet you’re the one.
Black or white, rich or poor Elizabethans all. With your profile on all those coins and notes who wouldn’t want to see you more?
On an island in the sea and around the world spinning in space newspapers today are drizzly soggy or sun-drenched parched with your face.
Lucky us to have lived through your times. Bit of a shock you’re mortal and just like us. Our personal angels are winging thank you letters to you while those that aren’t might mumble think gasp ‘Let them have fuss”.
Lamp posts are falling down and we’re toasting you and your reign. While not always understanding, we got you. Us a little bit wayward, but coming back to your ever-forwatd constancy again and again and again.
John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook.
Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic.
Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.
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