What is England?

What is England?

A farmer’s sickle sowing a rotting field of dust and crow,

A tailor's needle sewing for a people whose dress is naught but shadow.

The devil’s meadow is our garden, a river like a vein,

Streaming and screaming as it overflows.

We take from its bubbling elixir, pressed and grateful,

With a bite and beauty like a rose.

 

But what is England? If not a prideful cemetery?

A field to nowhere and gunpowder growing from its beating roots,

Its babe marching onwards through the growth, trampling on with silicone boots.

On and on with silicone boots.

A nation's ambition paraded from mount to shore,

Its song; a soulful desire for more and more and more.

 

But no not I, not here, not England.

It is a land of green and winter’s contempt,

The very same vision that our forefathers had dreamt.

Fear and war wilt in the bosom of its concrete spirit,

With false victories ever among us,

We stand crowned at the neck with a golden garrote.

 

This is the poison orated from our beloved and crimson canal,

A just and vital vision for a kingdom's impoverished morale.

Envy drips from those younger years our children slept,

So quiet and wonderful, an English past whose secret they kept.

But now they’ve awoken, those little children had all died and wept.

 

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