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.
..
Romalyn Ante
Writing West Midlands Room 204 member,
Shortlisted for The Asian Writer Chick-Lit Novel Competition,
Prize-winner in The Yellow Book Poetry Competition
I am not a silent poet 
Good solid whack across the noggins of the knuckle-draggers. No worries… do not adopt the mantle of collective woe. You are not amongst the “we,” the beetle-browed, the numb, if you did not vote for just one moment of adolescent rebellion, one cheap jolt of thrill — the ballot’s “blow against the empire” — which now will affect generations to come with consequences unimaginable. That pesky reality WILL intrude, & soon. Thus, to the Boris Chorus one might wish to say: “Carry on then buzz off. All tickety-boo?”
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