Little Kingdom of England
Too big for its boots
Shoots from the hip
As it limps in pursuit
Of the means to equip
For its own ill-repute
More slightly goes Blighty
Reduced to pipsqueak
By the hubris it conjures
With dumb overreach
Into each unforced blunder
And liturgy preached.
The rump of the islands
Small-minded in blue
Getting fancy-dressed up
In its great-aunt’s red shoes
But they’re too big to dance in
And stained with mildew.
Little England in stature
Gone large with its yapper
Gone charging in public parks
Mad like the clappers
Tail-chasing in neighbours’ yards
With larger snappers.
Human Nature loves a vacuum
See how quickly it is filled
With all noisome indiscretions
And as hastily distilled
People breathing in the moonshine
They’re producing at the glug
Willing workers in the factory
Where the atmosphere’s a drug
All tottery and swivel-eyed
Hysteria has found its place
Rebranded as the stuff of life
That fumes and ripens off its face
How long before this tolerance
For clumsy, loud and noxious gas
That permeates to radiate
Achieves its critical mass?
How long before resistance freaks
And turns to intervene
And closes down production
Of the poison in the steam?
”The one that replaced the complacency.”
“The one that will replace the outrage.”
Populists are dangerous creatures
Hunting for bugs to sell on as features
Thumping away at their primitive chests
For the tyrannous point
Where the Right meets the Left
What if arithmetic were underpinned by the base-mood system:
if its virtues were no more than the sum of
popular feelings, mischievous algorithms and smoke-filled echo chambers?
Into vacuity pours every salivating nihilist
To vault bridges and dance the day invisible.
The disarmed pray
As hedonists look away
And the powerful wring their hands.
All prey, standing side-on;
Humanity, becalmed and haunted, waits
For spark and wind to wake the auditors.
When selecting which ‘Will of the People’ to thwart
Politicians give plenty expedient thought
And whatever Theresa believes she has bought
Big Bad John says the Don is unfitted to talk.
Speaker Bercow opposes the government ranks
Who with desperate haste in their Brexity tanks
Have so shamelessly pimped out the pomp of the Realm
To a monster addicted to taking the helm.
As expected the Brexits are all apoplectic
‘The Art of the Deal’ is their feel of the day
And the U. S. of A says they think we’re forgetting
They’ve just put that Churchill bust back on display.
Behold! Brexity Britain, integrity stripped
By a hopium Blighty with mob-handed grip,
Where to step out of line is the new imposition
And those who oppose brave uncommon position.
But John Bercow’s line is a dignified wall
Between Trumpet the sump pit and Westminster Hall
And as Donald is fickle and dumb and uncouth
He is favoured the better, forbidden of proof.
BBC News, February 7th, 2017: “A matter for Parliament”
BBC ‘This Week’ April 2nd, 2015 – Big John: https://youtu.be/x-XAOCHPXgs