I heard a word called ‘Britishness’ today
A hoof in a herd of emotive words in speeches
Devotees beseech us to rally round the rag
while the rugged and the mad tear Baghdad to pieces
So what the hell is British, anway?
A man named Moat in a motiveless
bid to be noticed
Sought his dejected, bloated satisfaction
as disaster unfolds
Britons bold enough to plaster hero status on the troll
While another British prole brought him poultry and a fishing pole
So what the hell is British, anyway?
Annual bit o’ buntin’ in honour of Yorkshire day
More to say today then ever of Wilberforce’s birthday
of what he meant
That happiness for every human should be every other human’s intent
in the counties where Ukip support went up by thirteen point eight percent
So what the fuck is British, anyway?
Myriad meanings in microcosmic imperial mausolea
Muddied waters remain unclear as mortar and smoke
Measuring men in melanin levels tells nothing
of their sort of folk
A mere matter of happenstance where mother’s waters broke
Because what the devil is British, anyway?
The devil came one day and we held him at bay
with the Yanks and the French and Russians and other masses
Pushing Britain the Great
Omit Red Army from history classes
and forget how many of us flirted with fascists
Decades on, still argued with Gurkhas over cash, it’s a joke
What sort of bloke is British in this way?
If there’s any British way, I live that way today
as do you, your neighbour, John Major and Abu Hamza
Your mugger, your saviour, your questions, your answers
Your major, your miner, your witty one-liner, your line of Morris dancers
So tell me, mate
How are you being British today?