Like a ship in Her Majesty's Royal Fleet,The abbey rests midst a sea of crisp green grass,
Perfectly kept.
Everything has its function,
Everyone has their place.
As each servant has their assigned duties,
So too does each spoon have its assigned dish.
For the housekeeper to stock the wine cellar,
Or to eat from bouillon cup with a soup spoon,
Would be equally unthinkable faux pas.
Men in ties and tails,
Ladies in gowns and gloves,
Are nightly sights over filet of sole,
And the proper wine.
As Lords, Ladies, and senior staff,
Devoutly dedicate themselves to age-old customs,
The new generation seeks to embrace modern life,
And junior staff hatch plots in back halls,
To advance their own ends.
Yet, each night when the sun sets,
The abbey endures as a steadfast monument,
To tradition and above all to,
Propriety.
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