[FOsen]

It might be hell, with crowds from Hull to Dover
And crushing heat and traffic jams and rush;
Remember, in a fortnight, though, it’s over.
Imagine, then, the pacifying hush

That falls, as when a host and hostess rest
Amidst the ruins of their home at dawn,
Having seen their last and drunkest guest
Safely past the confines of the lawn.

Don’t dwell then, on the deep and boundless tide
Of branded trash and tacky souvenirs;
Though that will take forever to subside,
You needn't entertain again for years.

It’s like a rocket’s launch, though millions watch it,
Who ever stays up late to see the thing land?
Once off, it runs itself, you just can’t botch it.
So, close your eyes and think of England, England.