Gerrard, Sir Gerrard – are you sure that it’s so,
Your title, your label, or are you having a go,
At me, your poor servant, a man dearthly low?
Gerrard, Sir Gerrard, pray tell me, with haste,
How you got it, your title, your rank and your place?
Cos I want it, really want it, so I can lift up my face.
I got it, my title, after years of hard slog,
Writing stories for children; my mind was agog.
I was tired, so tired, when I knelt down before,
The Queen, then she tapped me and I fell to the floor, asleep.