There’s nothing that’s so mighty
That the cynics can’t belittle
And the owners at their high tea
Smugly point out that now it’ll

Be the ruination of Blightie,
The end of all they built;
When god looks down at night he
Spreads out his cloudy quilt

And blesses all that English
With a sprinkling of warm bitter:
So green from start to finish,
A perfect island fit. A

Way of proclamation,
A brand new empire offer
To our distant Celtic nation
Who hold on to our soul of a

Wode and racing green hue,
An insular disport,
Living in a lean-to
Made of stone. This ought

To shout a national line,
The hunt, the sword, a face kissed
By dewy sun and wine,
The history of the racist.