Pub Talk

Pub talk

They would have us believe that Britain,
Her arms outstretched, her hands cupped
(Like your stereotypical scrounger) –
Has had enough,
Is full up,
From the well of people and cultures and then
They point out the figures and see
A half empty glass.
As they sip on a pint,
And point to the flag,
Smacking their hearts and asking me how –
Proud I am.
My arms out stretched, my hands articulating,
But no, no words,
Leaving my mouth,

They would have us believe that Britain,
Her petals withered, her buds weakened
(Only her thorns standing proud) –
Stood alone.
Grew back alone,
And it always was, and should be like that,
From the Indian gurkas to the lend-lease act
They explain.
Rotten to the roots,
Opinion is absolute, and in full bloom,
I ask them what Proud is.
Stubbled jaws to the sticky floor,
What you,
Should
Be, they reply

They would have us believe that Britain,
Her sword sheathed, her shield somewhere overseas
(But her armour still gleaming) –
Is on her knees, before the world.
As It churns out
More victims and workers and
Spongers and earners
Serving new servants
They’d be wrong:

Invasion I’ve not seen,
From those born here before me.

They would have us believe,

They
Are proud.