It's certain that the bright warm beams of the glorious sun'll Shine no more in that deep, dank, dark Parisian tunnel Illuminated after the crash only by the flashes of the paparazzi While horrified onlookers wept and waited playing cards and Yahzee And thinking as they rolled, ah, now the die is cast But the Di that was dearest to us will soon be tragically dead at last And remembering as their tears fell how she was their only sunshine Because she the world did her very best to un-mine. Away in Balmoral Castle, the Queen plays with each baby prince Not able to tell them the truth, except through clues and hints "But Grandma Elizabeth, why can't mummy come down to play? "She's been upstairs sleeping now for many a long day." "Hush," answers the Queen. "I will now call your mother only `Di'. "And if you think very hard, perhaps you can guess why." While outside, at a distance, are the flashes of the telephoto-lensed paparazzi And Prince Philip shakes his fist at them, because they are worse than any Nazi. All over England, there is a popular outpouring of emotion With people lining up, some of whom have travelled across the ocean And they curse the paparazzi for it is certain that it was they Who killed the unseatbelted Diana as at 120 mph her drunk driver did carry her away Just one question is on their lips as they ask themselves why "Why must our Queen of Hearts now be the Queen of Hearts in the Sky?" While above them in the sky, the very same sun does ironically shine Which was dark that night as Diana died underground in a way that was anything but fine.