Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the not waving
but drowning, rules the say hello wave goodbye, rules
the mickey, the goofy, the plutocrat.
Britannia rules the hope for the best, the vote for the worst.
Britannia rules the Farage sale,
Britannia rules the carefully kept heads,
rules the all-about-are-losing-theirs.
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the wave machine
in the leaking paddling pool.
Rules the win some, the lose some.
The game of thrones, but not the ace of spades.
Britannia rules the friendly bombs, the Slough,
the Pandora’s Ballot Box, the corpse-stench of hope.
Rules the rough beast, the slow crawl to Bethlehem,
the not knowing what the hell it is that’s being born.
Adam Horovitz has been writing about the small corner of England he grew up in (amongst other things) for most of his life, having adopted and celebrated Cider with Rosie country with the sort of vigour typical of a child of immigrants. His latest release is Little Metropolis, a CD of poetry and music, which is more celebratory of small town Britain than he currently feels.