The Duchy of Dung: The Extended Squelch

acoustic hip-hop, Welsh rap, folk-tinged boom-bap

[Verse 1]
I’m at the pulpit, looking like a million quid
But I’m hiding a secret, God help me, I did
I had a breakfast of champions: Three Scotch eggs and a stout
And now the "Welsh Water" is screaming to get out
My colon is a pressure cooker, whistling a tune
I’m about to drop a payload on this Tuesday afternoon
I’m clenching so hard that I’ve fused my own spine
While trying to read a poem and pretend that I’m fine
The Prince is looking happy, the Queen is looking stoic
But my internal plumbing is anything but heroic.

[Verse 2]
I reached the bit about "for better or for worse"
And felt a sudden shifting, like a tectonic curse
It wasn't a whisper, it wasn't a sigh
It was a biological Brexit, a wet goodbye
A "Sovereign Squelch" that echoed through the nave
The sort of performance that follows you to the grave
It felt like a warm, heavy hug from a ghost
As I raised up my glass for the final wedding toast
My white linen shorts are now a "Limited Edition"
A mahogany masterpiece of nutritional ignition!

[Chorus]
(He’s done it! The madman! The Duke of the Dump!)
I’ve given the Royals a lump in their pump!
(The splatter! The matter! The mahogany spray!)
I’ve ruined the wedding in the most Welsh way!
It’s a rhythmic explosion, a catchy little crime
The man who shat the Abbey for the very first time!

[Verse 3]
The imagery is graphic, the detail is grim
I’ve painted the altar and I’ve painted the hymn
It wasn't just liquid, it had texture and weight
Like a Five-Gallon bucket of high-velocity fate
It bypassed the fabric, it ignored every seam
And hit the front row like a nightmarish dream
The Duchess of Edinburgh has got a speck on her cheek
She’ll be scrubbing that "bronzer" for at least a whole week
I’ve turned the Archbishop into a chocolate fondue
With a One-Hundred-and-Eighty-degree panoramic view!

[Bridge]
[Beat slows down, bass gets deeper and more "squelchy"]
(The viscosity is legendary)
(The bouquet is... complex)
It’s a mixture of sulfur, old socks, and regret
The most dangerous substance the world’s ever met
I’m standing in a puddle that’s starting to steam
While the BBC camera crew starts to lose their theme
"Is it art?" asks the Guardian. "Is it war?" asks the Sun.
No, it’s just the result of a Newport-style bun!

[Verse 4]
I’m throwing out one-liners like a stand-up in hell
"I’ve given the monarchy a new kind of smell!"
"I’m the Heir to the Porcelain, the Prince of the Poo!"
"I’ve brought enough gravy to feed the whole queue!"
My shorts are so heavy they’re hitting my knees
Like a sodden, dark parachute caught in the breeze
I’ve got more "brownie points" than a Scout on a mission
But I think I’ve just ended the entire tradition
The Corgis are howling, the trumpeters faint
As I finish my speech with a fresh coat of paint!

[Verse 5]
[Fast rap, aggressive rhythm]
We’re talking One-Thousand-Percent total coverage
A biological landslide, a rhythmic encumbrage
It’s stuck to the velvet, it’s soaked through the gold
A story of failure that’ll forever be told
I’m the "Muddy Groomsman," the "Sultan of Sludge"
And the ghost of Prince Albert is the only one to judge
I’ve obliterated history with a single "THLORP" sound
And spread the "Duchy of Dung" all over the ground
Proper tidy, boy, I’ve made quite the impression
I’m the only man banned from the entire succession!

[Outro]
(Get the pressure washer!)
(The big one!)
(The one they use on oil spills!)
The Royal Flush, baby. 
I’m going to go stand in the Thames for a bit.
Anyone got a spare pair of trousers?
Preferably made of lead?
[Long, wet, vibrating sound effect]
[Final acoustic strum]
[Fade out with the sound of a distant, panicked siren]

3987/7500

[Intro] [Sound of a distant church bell tolling] (Here we go again) (Keep your distance, boy) Check it, one, two. I’m standing in the Abbey, feeling rather regal But what’s happening in my trousers should be strictly illegal. I’m the Best Man, the legend, the Newport Casanova But I’m about to start a war that’ll never be over. [Verse 1] I’m at the pulpit, looking like a million quid But I’m hiding a secret, God help me, I did I had a breakfast of champions: Three Scotch eggs and a stout And now the "Welsh Water" is screaming to get out My colon is a pressure cooker, whistling a tune I’m about to drop a payload on this Tuesday afternoon I’m clenching so hard that I’ve fused my own spine While trying to read a poem and pretend that I’m fine The Prince is looking happy, the Queen is looking stoic But my internal plumbing is anything but heroic. [Verse 2] I reached the bit about "for better or for worse" And felt a sudden shifting, like a tectonic curse It wasn't a whisper, it wasn't a sigh It was a biological Brexit, a wet goodbye A "Sovereign Squelch" that echoed through the nave The sort of performance that follows you to the grave It felt like a warm, heavy hug from a ghost As I raised up my glass for the final wedding toast My white linen shorts are now a "Limited Edition" A mahogany masterpiece of nutritional ignition! [Chorus] (He’s done it! The madman! The Duke of the Dump!) I’ve given the Royals a lump in their pump! (The splatter! The matter! The mahogany spray!) I’ve ruined the wedding in the most Welsh way! It’s a rhythmic explosion, a catchy little crime The man who shat the Abbey for the very first time! [Verse 3] The imagery is graphic, the detail is grim I’ve painted the altar and I’ve painted the hymn It wasn't just liquid, it had texture and weight Like a Five-Gallon bucket of high-velocity fate It bypassed the fabric, it ignored every seam And hit the front row like a nightmarish dream The Duchess of Edinburgh has got a speck on her cheek She’ll be scrubbing that "bronzer" for at least a whole week I’ve turned the Archbishop into a chocolate fondue With a One-Hundred-and-Eighty-degree panoramic view! [Bridge] [Beat slows down, bass gets deeper and more "squelchy"] (The viscosity is legendary) (The bouquet is... complex) It’s a mixture of sulfur, old socks, and regret The most dangerous substance the world’s ever met I’m standing in a puddle that’s starting to steam While the BBC camera crew starts to lose their theme "Is it art?" asks the Guardian. "Is it war?" asks the Sun. No, it’s just the result of a Newport-style bun! [Verse 4] I’m throwing out one-liners like a stand-up in hell "I’ve given the monarchy a new kind of smell!" "I’m the Heir to the Porcelain, the Prince of the Poo!" "I’ve brought enough gravy to feed the whole queue!" My shorts are so heavy they’re hitting my knees Like a sodden, dark parachute caught in the breeze I’ve got more "brownie points" than a Scout on a mission But I think I’ve just ended the entire tradition The Corgis are howling, the trumpeters faint As I finish my speech with a fresh coat of paint! [Verse 5] [Fast rap, aggressive rhythm] We’re talking One-Thousand-Percent total coverage A biological landslide, a rhythmic encumbrage It’s stuck to the velvet, it’s soaked through the gold A story of failure that’ll forever be told I’m the "Muddy Groomsman," the "Sultan of Sludge" And the ghost of Prince Albert is the only one to judge I’ve obliterated history with a single "THLORP" sound And spread the "Duchy of Dung" all over the ground Proper tidy, boy, I’ve made quite the impression I’m the only man banned from the entire succession! [Outro] (Get the pressure washer!) (The big one!) (The one they use on oil spills!) The Royal Flush, baby. I’m going to go stand in the Thames for a bit. Anyone got a spare pair of trousers? Preferably made of lead? [Long, wet, vibrating sound effect] [Final acoustic strum] [Fade out with the sound of a distant, panicked siren]

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