Short Britons Poems

For days I coughed hard and hurt my guts,
drank tea like Britons from china cups,
the virus never left,
this poor guy never slept...
did this bad cold come from unwashed mugs?...

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In my secret heart I’ve felt
Like a blood-crazed Celt,
Scottish, Irish, either one,
Killing Britons with my gun.

Or with broadsword or with knife,
Dirk, or dagger, taking life
In an Ulster alleyway,
Or Culloden Moor that day.

Smoke and blood on heather grass,
Celtic reverie must pass,
Like a distant, dimming dream
Drowning in a dank, swift stream....

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If the UK is as PC
as some would have us perceive
(tho' Britons never never never shall be slaves
Boadicea's turning in her grave)
it's incorrect on two counts
would you believe
and the US we should see
as between '52 and '22
it was a Queendom
not a Kingdom
and either way
that's sexist so
to speak more accurately
accordingly it should be
the United Sovereignty
...

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snow sprinkles quiet
                
                      on our neighbourhood this 

                      sparkling monday morn



                       snow is announced as 

                       if britons nor welcoming  

                       or woeful before



                       snow silences the 

                       shaking sleeping policemen on

                       our deserted road...

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