Manannan mac y Leir considers his future,

how he pretends to put up with the pretence 

of the Lord of Mann – a role occupied by 

 

a British Queen fluent in English & French 

– Gyn çhengey, gyn çheer. Mere mortals 

come and go, five times in seventy years, 

 

she stepped upon his isle, not once for twenty. 

He muses, cha nee yn wooa smoo eieys smoo 

vlieaunys. He knows she doesn’t have

 

craue beg sy chleeau, and forty-pieces 

of Maundy money doesn’t make up for that. 

Crown Protectorate is not a name fitting the Act, 

 

especially when she leaves the job to a man with 

a white flamingo feather in his hat. Veryms y 

banjagh dhyt, he mutters, holding a knowing 

 

stare across, he recalls his favourite shennockle, 

Yn taitnys smoo ayns bea te ayns jannoo

shen ta’n sleih gra nagh vod mayd jannoo.