Between Ourselves

No; we are not going to the Coronation.
   Quite ridiculous! We wouldn't, anyhow.
As dear Arthur lately said,
He would rather be found dead
   Than among the crowd infesting London now --
All the hoi polloi to see the Coronation --
   Trippers! Don't count us with them! Oh, dear no!
Every Tom, Dick, Harry there
Who contrives to raise his fare.
   I'm surprised that you should dream that we might go.

But, between ourselves, my dear, I'm simply fuming.
   I had counted so on going all along.
But, just at the very time
We need money -- It's a crime --
   Arthur's business matters have to go all wrong.
And dear Arthur says he couldn't raise a copper
   For a frankfurt if they asked cash on the spot.
So exclusiveness we hug,
And we raise our brows and shrug
   As we murmur, "Coronation?  Rather NOT!"

Our Best People do not rush the Coronation --
   I mean to say, the socially select.
One can't be too careful, dear.
We may do the trip next year
   When one really knows, you know what, to expect.
But London at the time of the Coronation?
   Oh, utterly impossible. So low!
It's a shame that our dear king
Has to suffer such a thing.
   I can't think how you could think we meant to go.

But, between ourselves, I'm mad with disappointment.
   I felt so confident we should be there
To improve our social rank.
But, dear Arthur says the bank
   Would not listen when he tried to raise the fare.
So, of necessity, we make a virtue,
   And seek the final refuge of the snob;
And with most superior poses
We look primly down our noses
   As we murmur, "Coronation! With THAT mob?"