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!
Copyright ©
Bill Drayton
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