They call me Gypsey Jingle, by appointment to the Queen.
I stitch rhymes for her amusement; sonnets loving, limericks mean.
Eulogies embroidered with an appliqué of froth.
Weaving odes of adoration; spinning slander from whole cloth.
Some trick of my audition plays a xylophone of verse.
Euphorizing my condition, some quite good, some are worse.
I hymn rondelays for revels, serve real tears with epitaphs.
I mend madrigals for vespers; papal satires just for laughs.
I hide venom in false wishes. I help vent the royal spleen.
I praise gods & mortal masters as befits a sitting Queen.
I patch politics with slogans ~ jingo love or baseless cant.
I'm bespoke to be outspoken, to give voice to queenly rant.
I'm the seventh generation, quite well-suited for my times.
They call me Gypsey Jingle. I make rhymes.