Isn’t it funny how once, in my childhood reveries,
I wished to live in GB? Those hazy dreams
Of grand halls, afternoon tea in China cups,
And leather-covered books about Cedie, and Sarah.
The posh postures, and curtseys, the polite words
Yes please, and Thank you – all ripped
Like a fancy Persian rug in an English, terraced house.
Look now, the grand halls shrink into benefit streets,
Afternoon teas are imbued with myriad moans
About how they’re all stealing our jobs.
We sat on leather-covered books we have read,
Page 1 to the last stained page,
Believing we are utterly great. While the world
Watches, and whispers how bloody stupid
We really are.