The Battle of Britain I
As aspiration seeks to take its toll,
your mass flotilla salvaged sons of war.
‘Twas but a feat the angels will extol
though Satan’s army rallies at your door.
Your youthful fit have vowed to serve the Crown.
They muster arms to keep his wolves at bay.
Your British proud must hold this hallowed ground
for nothing but the Channel bars his way.
But first the beast must dominate the air
and thus, a war for Heaven shall he wage.
So, send your sons where only angels dare
and pray they rise to front the devil’s rage.
His hand to win the Heavens has been played.
The impetus shall threaten all surveyed.
The impetus shall threaten all surveyed
while Europe’s light fades slowly from the Earth.
The darkness grows to feed his vile crusade
as desperation amplifies his girth.
His tyranny encapsulates the realm.
His manifesto prophesized the quest.
For most, his swift assault would seize their helm
but patience would be key to seize the rest.
And now this beast is standing at your door.
He smells your fear, he hears your pounding heart.
Your fortitude must reckon at your shore
and any thoughts of failure must depart.
Pray dear England, for Hell awaits your soul.
If you relent, this demon takes control.
If you relent, this demon takes control
and all the world shall drift into the night.
Oh, dear England, as Satan seeks your soul,
your sovereignty must ready for this fight.
Prepare in mass for skies shall fill with fire
as birds of steel seek out the Crowning prey.
Lend not to fear when days grow ever dire
but let a voice of reason guide the way.
For fear is but a percolating skill
that grips your mind and petrifies your heart.
So, dare not yield nor bend to Satan’s will,
for if you do, this world shall come apart.
The fervor of his wrath shall be displayed
unleashing his intent through Hell’s crusade.
Unleashing his intent through Hell’s crusade,
the Channel skies were first to feel his wrath.
From port to bow, each ship that rendered aid
was christened as they trekked Gibraltar’s path.
His flying wolves instilled the Dover skies
in search of lambs to feed his hungry pack.
‘Twas but a ploy to lure them to demise
as Hell’s Luftwaffe waited to attack.
But such a taunt would beckon no retreat
nor meek capitulation dare condone.
Your English soil will never bear defeat
if wings of Britain swear to hold their own.
For now, the devil’s angels tend the reins
as ruthless raids molest the Channel lanes.
As ruthless raids molest the Channel lanes
your hapless ships fall victim to the foe.
His wings of wraith spit venom from their veins
until their riddled hulls would sink below.
They pummeled fields where allied sons aligned
to stall the tide and front his birds of prey,
but nay a soaring Spitfire dared resign
for they were all that kept his wolves at bay.
And, though your gates were battered o’er and o‘er,
‘twas but a blister on the British fist,
for no brigades could storm your Channel shore
while English pride continued to resist.
Though Satan’s rage set free his birds on high,
a pulsing motive met them in the sky.
Copyright ©
Mark Massey
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