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.
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