If there’s no bowl, upon your pelmet,
then stir your broth, in a helmet,
be like him, who rode with smile,
whose speech retold, many a mile,
to dance and sing, were also stock,
a friend we made, on the box,
his heart was warm, in al fresco,
in terms of candour, he was maestro,
he sugar-coated, this hard life,
thus, love he served, a dish so ripe,
a legacy sweet, savours the land,
as, for all to see, his King still stands.