'Bout Will and Kate's new son,
Born July twenty-two, two-oh-one-three,
Six ounces and eight pounds.
Now this one's third in line to become king,
(Thank god he's not a girl),
With no power other than symbolic,
Oh, and enough money to buy the world,
Born of a tradition marked by incest,
Though, granted, not lately,
The Monarchy has had no juice since the,
But they're still loved,
By most those of England,
Still an excuse to stay within in one's class,
And avoid excessive revolution.