The King Is Dead

It's 40 years since The Smiths released their third studio album The Queen Is Dead. The album  is a classic of British indie rock from the ‘80s released in 1986. It’s a witty, maudlin and sardonic critique of Thatcher's Britain, which combines Morrissey's romantic, sarcastic and playful lyrics with Johnny Marr's classy guitars to create a broken, nostalgic and often comic vision of British life.

I often wonder, what if the album's title track was written and released today, it would probably read something like this.

The King Is Dead

The guards are rehearsing their grief, but their hearts aren’t in the role;
One yawns, one smirks, one quietly pockets a royal bowl.
A maid sweeps confetti that no one claims to have spread!
But she winks as she whispers,
“You know….the King is dead.”

Oh, ring the bells with a shrug,
let the choir sing off‑key.
History’s pages turn themselves,
they don’t need you or me.
And if joy feels improper,
just blame tradition instead
It’s terribly British
to cheer when the King is dead.

He ruled with a whisper,
and governed by pout;
He entered a room
and the lights all went out.
But now even the pigeons
refuse his last breadcrumb of dread
They coo their approval
that the King is dead.

In the town square,
a boy chalked a crown on the pavement
then rubbed it out with his sleeve,
ashamed by the rules our 'leaders' weave.
A woman placed flowers by the fountain
but left before anyone could see her do it.
We are a nation of ghosts
who prefer not to move the 'royal' goalposts! 

So raise a lukewarm glass
to the end of the fuss,
To the crown that weighed nothing
yet burdened all of us.
Let the trumpets misfire,
let the future tread
Softly, politely,
now the King is dead.