Come friendly bombs and fall on England!
It isn’t like we had an inkling,
The island may as well be sinking.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
These lands that are ruled by kings and queens,
Owner of islands that should be Argentines,
Tinned smile, shit suit, blonde hair, no jeans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a country,
It’s the only option, bluntly.
Led to Brexit by a bunch of numpties,
And people’s fears

And get that man with pint in hand
Who’ll always cheat and say it’ll be grand,
Who wants the foreign to be banned
Hides behind beers:

And smash his xenophobic lies
And smash his man-of-the people guise
And stop his dirty Brexit prize
And make him yell.

But spare the workers and the young
The side which really should have won;
It’s not their fault that they are stung,
They’ve tasted Hell.

It’s not their fault they do not know
They were not taught in school, you know,
It’s not their fault, it was that Gove
That spoiled it all.

They talk of Greens and theirs and ours
In various bogus-Vintage bars
And daren’t look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In rented poxy homes, with care
In a flat that three now share,
They can’t really afford it there.
Minor details.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Britain
This ain’t going to be fixed with just a sit in.
The racists are coming now;
Because Remain failed.


(for Slough, by John Betjeman)