England, My England

England, my England, you bore the pants off me.
Your nightingale in Berkeley Square is silent as a tree.
Your fish and chips have lost their battered loveliness for me.

England, my England, now not so proud and free.
Your British bulldog’s lost its bark, it whines interminably.
Your fiery chariot’s lost its spark, I think you would agree.

England, my England, and your split identity,
half turned towards the USA, half facing Germany,
an overtaxed and overcrowded island in the sea.

England, my England, God save democracy!
Jerusalem was never built upon a monarchy,
and William Blake and all his works were sent to buggery.

England, my England, the New Austerity.
You’re dumbing down the broadsheets, not to mention Radio Three.
You’re battening down the hatches in your new thugocracy.

England, my England, I hope it’s plain to see
that clutching Ukip to your breast is sheer insanity,
and for the love of Jove, M Gove is not your cup of tea.

England, my England, with your garden gnomes so twee,
your Wetherspoons, wet afternoons, your bloody history.
My England, I still love you, though you bore the pants off me.