Oh England, land of the Lionheart, lone man of the sea, barnacle encrusted,

Will of iron, a step apart, guardian of the gate, your armour is rusted,

Memories of long ago, memories of power, but the strength of your mumbled word fades,

The straps of your shield rot on the arm, and your sword is dull at the edge of its blade,

Can you not recall the painful centuries, scribing each line of your constitution, 

Still unwritten in any one place, that it may proudly continue its evolution,

Do you remember the pact that was struck twixt crown, parliament and people,

That each would abide in mutual respect and together combat all evil,

Oh England, it matters not that your armaments rot and your sword lays dull,

That the lion's mane is greying and frayed and no longer shines vibrant and full,

Your faithful observance of all that is fair and just is what sets you apart,

And the spirit of all your people, with pride, gifted the Lionsheart.