a forty fifth poem...'an old shilling'

Walking the dog

One dismal afternoon,

I found myself among

A sight-seeing platoon,

Passing the iron gates

at Buckingham Palace.

There I was along

With the usual throng

of American tourists:

Gee-whizzing,

Holy-rolling, or

Simply scratching

Baseball-capped heads..

..Fretting with the lining

In my cast-off-coat pocket,

The rough edge of a round sprocket

Turned out to be

An old shilling.

Ever keen/willing

I tossed the thing,

 Said:
‘Tails you win’,

To Cromwell - My King Charles Spaniel..

..But he, instead,

(As is his wont)

Was up to knavish tricks,

More bothered about

The steaming pile of horse-shit

Left behind,

By a house-hold cavalry steed,

To pay mind,
Take heed

Of all the ironies

Inherent therein

That happy (and glorious) moment.