Blast It!

Blast it home

Broken home

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Blast it home

Broken home




A poem for England



This England,
this broken land,
this mismanaged estate,
oozing folly from the playing fields of Eton
to the slumbering chambers of Westminster
and the Islamist study groups in Cable Street

This England, where's the passion gone?
Where are the NHS dentists?
Where's England gone?
Gone to the dogs?
Gone mad?
Gone to the Dome?
Gone multicultural?
Where's Tony gone?
Still searching for weapons of mass destruction and five star lunches?

This England where hospital patients are drinking
green mouldy water from flower vases in Mid Staffs,
'Cared-for' children are being traded on the streets of Rotherham for sex,
old people are forced to sell their homes
to fund a place in some waiting room for death,
and disabled people are being maltreated by chimpanzees
masquerading as carers

It's OK now,
Tony, the Messiah, is back in England
telling the duped 'leavers'
to rise up from their ignorance....
to stop setting their homes ablaze with their Whirlpool tumble dryers.
"Things can only get better."

This England where people get paid to talk,
to talk old people out of their life savings,
charity muggers and scammers,
cockroaches swarming down over-priced telephone lines,
insects claiming the moral high ground,
contributing nothing.

This England where everything is explained,
except the cost of telephone lines
or why New Labour told us that diesel cars were good for us
or why the Vauxhall Zafira B seven-seater model keeps catching fire...
don't park next one at your supermarket.
Do Vauxhall make tumble dryers?

This England where pin-striped gangsters and wine bar spivs
mock those who work for a living
while they fiddle with the Libor rates
and snort their nasty white powder at the Sambuca trough,
move along, this is England,
there's nothing to see here,
except some Tory fool telling Conference
"The time for banker bashing is over."