Thirteen copies were written, at least, And probably many more – All passed from bishop to sheriff to lord, And pinned-up, read, and, finally, stored, Then rotted or burned or thoroughly creased, Until we were left with four.
But then, for many centuries, Their words were out-of-date – Their scutages and fishing-weirs Belonged to long-forgotten years, And busy parli’mentaries Have moved on the debate.
Their Latin text is cramped and clipped, With not an inch to spare. And just like half the baron knights, We cannot even read the rights We’re gifted by this foreign script – We have to trust they’re there.
But so what if the parchments fade ? They’re passing, mortal things – It ain’t the laws that they imparted, But the movement that they started – In their image we are made, Who bow to laws, not kings.
“We will remove entirely the kinsmen of Gerard d’Athée from their bailiwicks, so that in future they may hold no bailiwick in England. We will remove from the kingdom all foreign knights who have come to the detriment of the kingdom.”
Magna Carta, 1215
English rights for English barons: That was the cry at liberty’s birth – And though they’d gag at the thought, would the barons, Their rights would trickle down to the serfs. Slowly, slowly, and bloody hard-won, Till the days of the tyrant-kings were done.
But nothing but exile for Gerard d’Athée, Farewell to Engelard, can’t let you stay, Goodbye to Guy, and to Guy, too-da-loo, Au revoir, Peter, and Andrew, adieu, And Geoffrey and Geoffrey, your fate is the same: Deported by charter in liberty’s name. And Philip (and brothers), return to your sires, Ex-Sheriff of Derby- and Nottingham- shires.
So there it was: the English disease: Scraping-up some scapegoats for their sleeping in our bed. But never for a moment did we get up off our knees To kick out at the barons – so we kicked the French instead. This lack of disquiet from locals is telling: Just tugging at forelocks instead of rebelling.
But surely things have improved ? It isn’t as though the world hasn’t moved: It started a wave that has kept rolling on, So we’ve far more rights now than had even King John. But all the un-English may find us less caring, For English-born freedoms were not made for sharing. So tell, Magna Carta: just what are you for ?, But a thing to suspend when we’re neck-deep in war.
The quote above is actually elided from half of clauses 50 (which does indeed go on to name nine individuals as well as two additional sets of ‘brothers’), and also part of clause 51 which continues the thought – although in the original, the clauses were not infact numbered. The first to do so was George Ferrers’ English translation of 1534, while the modern numbering dates from William Blackstone in 1759.
A supporter from the Nelson Memorial in Liverpool, sculpted by Richard Westmacott.
Rue Britannia
The trouble with lefties is cultural cringe – The feeling that England and Englishness Are suspect, colonial, Tory in dress, And bearing the taint of the hooligan fringe.
I swear, that there’s many a comrade I know Who just longs for our country to go down the gutter – So while we’re all queuing for teabags and butter, At least they can tell us they so told us so…
We know all the customs, yet scarcely believe them, We laugh at the toffs and the pomp and regalia, Meet with them rarely, yet long for their failure – We just see the wigs, not the justice beneath them.
However we came here, we’re on the same side, So don’t be ashamed of the marks that distinguish – We’re caring, and hopeful, and diverse, and English ! For aren’t we the ones who are all about Pride ?
And St George’s banner – why must we destroy it ? Let’s demystify it, but love the old flag. So wave it, or don’t – but it’s only a rag – It’s not gonna kills us if others enjoy it.
And yes, it is shame about God Save the Queen With its sentiments we’re ill-at-ease to endorse – But with national anthems, that’s par for the course – It hardly excuses our virtuous spleen.
Ignore all the words, and just hum to the tune – A dirgy tune, sure, but the one that we’ve got. And at least we all know it – let’s give it a shot, It’s only a minute, it’s all over soon.
There’s bad in our past, but those times were withstood – Let’s learn from our worst-selves, and never forget, And sing out our best side, and build on it yet – The odd bit of bunting might do us some good –
Don’t think that old England is not worth the fuss, For we’re all a big part of the way she turns out – Let’s change her for better, not whimper and pout ! Be proud of our nation, for this land is us !
The rich live in houses, the poor in cells, This is how classes are classed – From Kensington Gore to Tunbridge Wells The best were designed in the past. The poor get newer and concreted hells That are decomposing fast. Of course, the new could be just like the old, But then they would all get far too bold – So keep them ugly, keep them cold, And build them not to last.
The trouble with writers, back in that day, They never had chances to finish the job – Just splash on the whitewash, any old way, And promise and short-change and rob. Too many loose-ends and threpenny warts, Too many set-ups with no second coat – Till Misery’s suddenly out of his sorts, And the author is slashing our throats.
I came for satire, complexity, and human drama – but left with cyphers and a lecture…
The US is champing and Russia is frothing, The EU is braying and China is scoffing, Iran ululates and Israel kvetches, And nobody thinks of the innocent wretches. So crank up the ante and settle the score, Yippey, it’s a proxygen war !
With Japanese raving and Indians drooling, With peasants revolting and lords overruling, With Saudis denouncing and Vaticans cursing, The banks and the gangsters each tighten a purse-string, Kalashnikovs rattle and howitzers roar, Yee-ha, it’s a bloc-rocking war !
Got to keep those pinko yellow rednecks in the black, Got to stick those selfless noble heroes in the back – So pick a side and roll the dice, And carve yourself a bigger slice – It won’t be you who pays the price, As long as you attack.
The oil is stolen, the pipeline is shafted, The min’rals are worked and the workers are drafted, The diamonds are blooded, the rubies are spies For the gold in their teeth and the steel in their eyes – So give to the rich as we take from the poor. Olé, it’s a hamburger war !
The deserts are flooded, the icecaps are vapour, The oceans are plastic, the forests are paper, The vegans are cowed and the pacifists violent, The media meddles, the movies are silent, The public are jaded, they’re seen it before – Achtung, it’s a hand-me-down war !
Got to keep those dirty commie fascist lib’rals down, Got to kick those native ethnic locals out of town So pick a side and make your play, They’re only lives we throw away – We’ll laugh about this war some day, When memories turn brown.
Of all the tax I’ve had to pay For all my working life, I’ve only seen a fraction of its worth – I’ve never used a bridleway, Or been a battered wife, Or dug up ancient hills, or given birth.
I’ve got no kids in need of school, I need no legal aid, And need no shipping forecast out to sea – Not done the Tate in Liverpool, Nor called the fire brigade, Nor wandered through a managed forestry.
I guess I’ve got it breezy, Where the gremlins never struck – But still I always shrug and pay the price. It’s like a tax on easy – But if that’s the price of luck, Then ante-up – I’ll gladly pay her twice…
For teacher, binman, judge and ev’ry nurse, I stump-up for them all from out my purse, And whether Fate shall reimburse, It’s just the cost of our society – So take your bobbies and your squaddies, They’re not mine, they’re ev’rybodies ! Help yourselves, my friends, they’re all on me !
First it was the Devil and his minions beseiging us, And then it was the Cath’lics and the Pope – After them the Masons with their fingers in the pies, And then the Jews would steal away all hope – And don’t forget the Communists, the baby-eating Communists, To polish up the ever-slipp’ry slope – Today’s we blame the media, tomorrow blame the nanobots, But do we ever blame ourselves ? Hell, nope !
Bracken fronds have grown in Britain since the Ice Age quit the field, But suddenly the Government has said that bracken has to yield – And ragwort too, and certain thistles, though they’re natives to a leaf, Are now declared as stateless species by the gardener-in-chief. Buddleia, bamboo and Spanish bluebells get to spread their reign, While good-old British dock is in the dock, as though it grew cocaine. There’s plenty caterpillars eating all the native weeds that creep, But legislators only care for what can feed our cows and sheep. So throw them off the grouse moors, sweep them into gutters, dumps and ditches – Can’t have plebby natives on our fairways or our cricket pitches. Hack the forests down to make our rolling plains of pastures green, Then wonder why these woodland plants are growing where the trees had been.
Unto Those Who Have Shall be Given Is Mammon then the new religion ? Well, the wealthy always love a feast – And even bankers care a smidgen, Looking to the rising of the East. Oxonites and Grantabridgians Hail economists as modern priests. But who will feed the hungry pigeons When the gurus prowl with bigger beasts ? They cast the runes and read the guts, They tighten belts and order cuts, They short on ifs and hedge on buts, And half the time they’re nearly right, at least.
So is the market of the bull The gilded temple of the Golden Calf ? The debtors push, the futures pull, And prophets lease the rod to pay the staff. The brokers of the stock are full Of warnings and of lunches and of graphs, While sheep are fleeced of all their wool, And dealers trade in bitter tears for laughs. They watch the clouds and read the leaves, They loosen ties and roll their sleeves, They sup with kings and drink with thieves, And all our prayers are now worth only half.
Rhyming Couplets 