“I am the Empire in the last of its decline.” Paul Verlaine
I am Britain in the final orgasm of its fall,
that watches the confident Scots and Irish
pack their bright new suitcases
and stride palely towards the exit,
like soon-to-be ex-wives
that would be the death of me,
if I weren’t already dead.
The chalk cliffs of Dover
have been sold to a Chinese consortium
and the front pages applaud the deal
as a great victory.
Andrew Loyd Webber has been forced
at pistol point to write additional verses
for Rule Britannia.
I flip the pages of the atlas and imagine
invading places here, there
with the help of aircraft carriers
I no longer have but can still,
just about, picture.
On Gran Canaria withered Englishmen celebrate
their independence and look forward
to having to dress their own bed sores
in second hand bandages they’ll get free
with every glass of Weatherspoon’s
English sparking wine.
Photo Credit: Eric Jones
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