Stand Up, Stand Up for England
All Rise. Be thankful England stands alone
while my old boss bitch burns your insides,
churns and gnaws and screws and drives
all her empty bellied babbling brooks home.
Don’t think. You can show bare arsed cheek,
ask for more but be warned, here’s my nag
bridled in grey streaked black hearted drag,
chalking up her bum notes by rote to teach.
Be still. Balance bent books tip toed; weep
with each itchy outstretched palm face up
for a month of Sundays, nailed dumbstruck
in queues to supper on hot slippers for sleep.
Grow up. Be your father not son, cast votes.
His old school tie is tight, rubs red necks raw
and loosens up laws while he’s keeping score
as 1000 silent infants sink 1000 stone boats.
Stand up. Stand up for England’s thick skins,
stab dreaming spires to gore hopeful hearts,
spraying dog tagged walls with dog piss art
of your futures retired and their pasts begin.
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