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
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