Thursday, 28 April 2011

An Invite to the Wedding

I didn’t get an invite to the wedding
and, frankly, it is hard to mask the hurt.
I suppose there isn’t any point in threading
this button on my Marks and Spencer’s shirt.
My present lies beneath the stairs, inert,
(newlyweds cannot have too much bedding)
but, feck them, it’ll stay there gathering dirt
‘cos I didn’t get an invite to the wedding.

The postman brought no invite to the wedding.
Apparently I amn’t on the list.
This was the very thing that I’d been dreading –
being callously and royally dismissed.
Frustration at my absence from their tryst,
like poison, through my psyche has been spreading.
I’m sure my august presence will be missed
by those that got an invite to the wedding.

It seems that I’ve no invite to the wedding.
My diary is empty for that date.
I’d booked a B and B in downtown Reading
beside a nice industrial estate.
The yellow men behind me indicate
the salty trail of tears that I’ve been shedding.
Snubbed, not just by William, but by Kate,
I never got an invite to the wedding.

Did I mention I’ve no invite to the wedding?
But Ryanair will recompense my flight.
My Gatwick ticket’s only fit for shredding
but the airline’s sympathetic to my plight.
Thanks to this right royal oversight,
it isn’t down to London I’ll be heading.
When I get married, they can go and shite
if they think they’ll get an invite to my wedding.

© Peter Goulding

Riffraff at the Royal Wedding but no Tony Blair
Peter Goulding works in a warehouse in co. Kildare, Ireland and has bribed editors in four continents to accept his poetry. He has no practical talents whatsoever.