Listen to me read this poem

From beneath a tent of flags Her Majesty
stares down on where we wait on ceremony.
Babel builds. All kinds of kids slide and yell.
"About bloody time!" a ripe voice informs
His Worship, processing in his chain and ruffs.
He blows in the mike, starts, says four times
he's fifth generation Oz, murders the M.P.'s
Polish name, nods to Polly Glot, his clerk,
who raps them out, no sweat. We line up,
swear or affirm loyalty to the photo.
Republican Pom, doubly smug, I say Elizabeth
the First, not Second, but feel a right burk:
Vietnamese weeping with joy scotch my smirk.

We collect our potted wattles, tea from the tray.