Come, friendly bombs, and fall on those
Who say “Like, innit”, or “He goes”,
And split infinitives in rows
As though they’re chopping logs.
Demolish those, both old and young,
Who think the past of “bring” is “brung”,
And are the reason why our tongue
Is going to the dogs.
Just atomize those Dougs and Petes
Through whose inane linguistic feats
The tongue of Shakespeare, Donne and Keats
Has come a nasty cropper.
Come, friendly bombs, drop from the sky;
Illiteracy deserves to die.
But kindly spare all those like I
What speak our English proper.
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