The Western Gate

What is it to be English we wonder, I was always led to believe it was the race that fought for the underdog. maybe that was my upbringing. Every FA Cup final I’d always support whichever team was likely or supposed to lose. What is it to be English? to fight the Bullies. But is this all a smokescreen, in reality the reverse is true.
Here are three poems regarding St.George and our “illustrious empire.“

I.
Shall i raise a glass or maybe a flagon
to the Macedonian who slaughtered a dragon;
No green pleasant land did George’y abide
nor in Glastonbury Abbey are remains where he lies.
So a pint to King Richard who pissed of to France
but fought no dragon with shield and a lance
Or a pint to King Arthur, Pendragons son
Although a French bastard slipped Guenivere one.
So a pint to us English, the bastards of old
the barabarian mercenaries from every fold
the legions of warriors, the Saxons, the Celts
the Vikings, the Romans, French bastards as well.

II.
George’y Porgie pudding or pie,
Killed a dragon when dragons could fly;
The dame was rescued, a fair English rose,
They say they were wed, that’s not how it goes.
She turned to George in armour of steel,
And said,”must I now be indebted to kneel?
To do as you ask and do as you please
Though free of the dragon yet still on my knees?”
“Pray stop!” Said our George,”am I not dashing or brave
Handsome and rich, a king I’ll be made”
She looked at his armour, chainmail that rattles
And said,”I’m feminist you prick! I’ll fight my own battles.”
Poor George was distraught, she’d not be restraint;
She wed Bodicea- the real English saint.

III.

They looked after us
In the good old days
When the empire reigned
And we ruled the waves,
And proud to shout aloud the name
Of Britain, great ! The free and brave.
Up the chimneys maybe climb
But never smiled or dance around;
They fed us in the rookeries
Or workhouse blocks,
Doffed our caps to masters sat
And slurped on gruel and congealed fat.
The light was dim and lived within
A building bare with little there,
The doors weren’t shut
What need of that
With nothing held of wealth inside
Just threadbare clothes resown and tied.
Perhaps I’ll join the army
And get a pair of brand new shoes
Freely given from the man
Who says your country here needs you,
And sail to foreign unknown shores
And blow the brains from savage hordes.
Perhaps ill work for Bryant and may
And matches packed till end of day
And watch my nose itch and bleed
Until my nose gets worn away,
I’ll ask the gaffer, “mercy!” ever humble
Who knows my face will surely crumble.
Perhaps I’ll work upon the docks
And walk the cobbles in leather frocks,
My weight to carry down the lane
Unload the ships of exploited gain
Until my spine no longer stands
The constant pressure, constant pain.
When Britain ‘Great’ was proud with glory
The cockneys had another story
Runts we were in London Town
To cunts who’d tear your mother down
And still they feed the shitty lies
That all our past was built on pride.