“I’m Henry the Eighth, I am,” Perch Boy croons on the ‘throne’ before they hightail it down the corridor, stumbling across a roped-off bedchamber.
“Do you think he did all six of ‘em on it?” Fuzz Boy admires the towering four-poster.
“It would‘ve broke if he humped ‘em too hard,” Perch Boy straddles the rope. “Bet it don’t bounce, like a proper bed.”
“Gotcha,” irate officialdom rings out.
Hampton Court hijinks curtailed, the boys shriek louder than any Tudor queen learning of her fate.