As I contenplate this table top sale,
Where limbs of democracy, aged and frail
Hang frayed like the hem of her summer frock.
Britannia, she the proprietor
Of estuary accent, gabbling fools,
Watching frigates and gunships wave her rules
And drive a scribe towards the rioter.
Beyond such flag waving mutilation
Too many of us are still sleepwaliking,
Through a nightmare where she just keeps talking,
So: I'm back to beach hut preservation:
Where I'll gather my thoughts and cleanse my hands.
To greet refugees washed up on the sands.
Capability Red July 2017
