The children of Albion
maraud at the seaside,
smashedup vodka bottles
spray sharp wet confetti
for virgin flesh to find.
The Sunday morning talk
outside St George's church
is of young 'uns these days,
how they're feral and fierce
and bring back the birch.
How they come around here
leaving their shit for
decent people to pick up;
how they need a good kicking
and how a bloody good clip
never did us any harm,
we good people of England,
full of indignation,
dishing out retribution
in some dark torture chamber
of our dotaged dreams.
But the children of Albion
are English to their bones,
poor bastard progeny
of the furiously feudal,
these done-tos and havenots
filledup on futureless cornflakes
from Aldi and Lidl,
while their paylords and masters
flick them the fingers
from the breakfast tables
of touchless towers.
So the children of Albion
seethe to the seaside
(as soon as they're allowed),
offer prayers up to Churchill,
give thanks to The Few,
piss on pictures of Germans,
sing brave songs to England
and her Empire-building slaves,
whose shadows will on
the incoming waves.
Harry Gallagher from 'English Jack' published by The Black Light Engine Room Press
