An outbreak of poetry has occurred

Oh golly,
It's so jolly,
Bunting far as eye can see
Across closed pubs
Adorning food banks
For the royal jubilee.

Grannies knitting
Postbox cosies
Cry: "God bless her, everyone!"
And there she is, 
God bless her, sitting 
Polite
Through celebration.

"Is that Titchmarsh or Nick Witchell?"
Asks the Queen of Party Hats.
Aunty's airing hardline views on
Media-confected spats.

Grandpa, cold, has put the fire on,
Best suit pawned to pay the bill.
Someone brought a Party Seven,
For each Union Jack and Jill.

Bunter preens amidst the chaos
Drunk on power and disrepair.
Nanny taps the eighteenth century:
"Jacob, are you still in there?"

So here we sit
Forlorn and luckless
Shades of glory hand-me-downs
Hard the bread
And grim the circus:
Too much shit
Too many clowns.