When I think of “my Britain” I think of the local,
Heads of beer more attractive than the people drinking,
The lads making bad innuendoes and belching,
When I think of “my Britain” I think of football,
England struggling against minnows,
And getting paid an infinite more than doctors,
When I think of “my Britain” I think of multi-culture,
Children glad to sit bored outside assembly,
Because their God is not our God is not our Queen,
Is not us.
And “my Britain” is William Regal sipping tea,
In a wrestling ring, in America, in tights,
And the British Bulldog is another wrestler showing that in Britain,
Tights are traditional.
And “my Britain” does not exist,
As Britain is no longer a place where St George,
(Who never visited, or wrote, or called)
Slayed the dragon or convinced him/her/it/they/who?
With cold British charm,
That vegetarianism was the answer.
Because “my Britain” is a dream,
A vision, illusion, delusion, hallucination, or phantasm,
(Delete as appropriate or not at all)
Of a view of the Thames from Embankment,
The Bridge under cold blue light, warmly seeing,
The best view in Britain.
And Britain is a bubble,
That restricts, holds in, and is my house and street,
In which resides, at our discretion,
A bench on the river where one can see
People’s houses reduced to candles lighting a view just for the bench,
Where I once cried for “my Britain”.