It’s eleven-nine, fee fie fo fum,
I smell the oily slickness of stars and stripes
with aerodrome dreams and battle drum,
masturbating with guns, masticating gum,
flogging dead cows with flags and bagpipes,
bombarding with bombastic ass-wipes.
Come, chemical weapons, wipe out Great Britain,
sacrifice the Saxons, kill the Celts!
Hold your hands out, they’re about to get bitten
by Titans who won’t tighten their burly belts.
The Kings Road roasts, the Royal Mile melts.
Lie down, Thames lion, as tame as a kitten.
Or wake up and fight. The future’s not written.
© Archie Macjoyce