Before the last disaster - Covid- 
is properly put to bed the good folk 
of old England must uphold their good name 
now a new plague has begun- it has a sign
a white patch with a red cross; looking like 
nothing so much as a swastika.
Englishfolk inspecting their horizons
-where their hopes lie- find a darkening
that threatens the land. Now, not for glory
but having contended so much, they'll stand again.
They are invited to degenerate 
stunts and graffiti pass from rude to hellish 
but heir blood cannot reform- that's cancer.
All roads are crooked here, nothing is plain
-see the fools and damn fools- but the yardstick 
now must be not vows of honour or bold, loud claims
but the perfectly ordinary thoughts 
of that most common soul- unreformed 
inheritor of the blitz spirit.