I've had a go at a bit of Tennyson, though maybe it's not quite what Lucy wants:

It little profits that an aged queen,
Too far from idle, in a bankrupt land,
Matched with a grumpy spouse, I smile and wave,
And do the royal business, year on year.
I need to rest from reigning: let me drink
The cocoa of retirement. Come, my dogs,
My trusty corgis, with me to the West,
To gentle twilight and to sunset years,
And then beyond the sunset, where a crown
Means nothing, where there are no Jubilees.
This is my son, my poor self-pitying Charles.
He wants the job, and though he’ll make a botch,
As he has botched most things, the land deserves
No better. Let him try, while for myself
I’ll sit and rest, and read the racing news,
And feed the dogs, and never have to care.

George, that actually moved me very much. I loved it, and I bet Her Madge would, too.

Thanks, Ann. You've cheered my heart.

In for a penny - I decided to include the sweet white wine from Cargoes

I must go down to the Jubilee, and all I ask is a barge,
I’d keel over with mirth for a single berth, it needn’t be very large,
And some Queenly waves, to a hoarse God Save and peals from the floating carilion
And the crowd’s great roar, as we ship our oars, past the royals in their royal pavilion.
I must go view the River Pageant from a quinquireme,
Oh, how I'd glow as up river we’d row, or merrily down the stream,
And all I ask is seagulls, with their sea-squawks, down the line
and a cargo of apes and peacocks, all awash with sweet white wine.
I must go down to the Jubilee, to the Jubilee in a boat,
For why are we here, if not to cheer, thank god, we're still afloat?

Frank

That's a win, Frank. I have improved my Hughes. I think it's much better now.

There’s a jubilant buzz over Wapping,
They’re embroidering banners in Slough,
And even in Ealing, the people are feeling
A touch patriotic for now.

When she came to the throne, there was smog in
The City (no “traders” or “killings”),
And some of our money was still rather funny;
A crown was worth only five shillings.

But the crown that she bears on her noggin
Is a jewel beyond any price;
Sixty years she has worn it, though scoundrels would pawn it
To fund their republican vice.

So we think that it’s all simply topping;
We’ve sent her a Jubilee text:
“Dear Elizabeth R, what a stayer you are,
And your Platinum Jubilee’s next!”

John, I don't want to upset you, but I think I actually prefer your first version, especially the ending. But then -

what the hell do I know,
said Crow.

With apologies to Southey's 'Blenheim':

Twenty-twelve? What a year that was!
For we had the Olympics too, you see,
And those most certainly never come free -
A pity in times of austerity.
Still, we had a lovely Jubilee.

We were told we were having a marvellous day
By excitable chaps from the BBC
And the Royals looked quite possessed by glee
As they waved at us from their balcony.
Yes, they had a lovely Jubilee.

And everyone took the day off work,
Which made quite a dent in the GDP
Of a country at risk of insolvency -
Well, the subsequent crash is history,
But it was a lovely Jubilee.

Dash it, Brian. And I've sent the second one off. I should have listened to you. But, come to that, I can send the first one AS WELL.

Nah, John, don't listen to me. Whenever I send multiple entries, if I win at all, it's always the one I thought was the third best. The first two are destined for the shredder.