A truth dirtier than a nine-bob-note
is that we all crave our majesty’s face
multiplied and pressed tight
up against our thighs.
Coin after coin plunked in close to the crotch
with the jingling ecstasy of bed-springs,
or paper crumple-creased
as tissues soiled and greased.
We don’t much care which profile’s nestled there,
the young and thin, or the slight double chin
provided she’s replenished
again and again.