John Bull Jack
At least with patrons David and Patrick,
They visited the lands which went on to claim them –
But George and Andrew are strangers to Albion,
(We had local talent, but no-one can name them).
I bet they never heard of us, we’re just hicks from the sticks –
They’re busy being famous, they won’t return our call.
To patronising saints, we’re just fanboys with a crucifix –
Mini-me Man-U supporters, posters on the wall.
But then, what does it matter anyway ?
Especially for England,
Especially on George’s Day.
The red and the white are only for fascists –
The Guardian insists,
And the bleeding hearts will wail –
The flag is now the possession of the Mail.
Haven’t you heard ?
Patriotism is a very dirty word.
The only time, the only time
That national pride can still be shown
Is during the World Cup alone.
And when they lose, that very day,
The flags must all be put away
And never more be flown.
Ah, perhaps I’m being too hard,
But still the Left can’t lose the twinge
To see their homeland as only bland and scarred.
They never can relax their guard,
Or shake the shame and cultural cringe –
They love the stranger, hate their own back yard.
And yes, I know the old old stories –
Slaves and Empire, toffs and Tories –
Nobody’s disputing –
But still there’s Newton, Attlee, and the Bard !
So all the more the need, I say,
To set aside a National Day !
Forget old Georgie – let’s be cannier,
Make ourselves a Saint Britannia –
She can be our national birthday card !
John Bull Jack