Swansong

SWANSONG England expects Britannia to rule the waves, From the white cliffs of Dover To where the Sun never sets. We’ll keep the Union Jack flying Over this sceptred isle, Set in a silver sea, As a beacon of light To ward off continental types And other undesirables, Especially if they come across in leaky dinghies, Or claim they’re celts of ancient stock. Let the illustrious vessels of our Royal Armada, Let loose with cannon at such easy targets, sink them Without trace as if they’d never been. God bless our Senior Service of jolly tars - They who go down to the ocean To hold, defend our hallowed shores in the spirit Of John Bull and the utter Contemptibles. The iceberg of reality approaches Titanic - Our unsinkable leviathan without need For a full complement of lifeboats, The loose decision made In a smoke-filled boardroom According to the hubristic arrogance Of distinguished gentlemen. Their collective psyche hides the vain Inadequacy of patchwork-repairs To the brittle hull of a false-named ship. A sea's vengeance rushes in Through cracks, the force of the waters, Exposing fault lines in a cards' Prime pack, hurled with the splintered Chaos of a broken cabinet. England can expect nothing But a wet-kipper slap on the face As a reaction to blinkered flights to nowhere; Britannia’s just a grim old hag, Leaning for immortal support on A knobbly, noble shield of state, bent by A rusty clattering of crumpled old age, The white cliffs of Dover, Succumbing to time's ravage, Have become a jagged parapet of yellowing Teeth, gaping in a crooked grimace! Not even an accoutred uniform to put up The guilt-stained sheet for a flag of surrender! No honourable honour guard for Vanished detachment, gone to good Ol' Blighty or the Land of Nod!