And another.
Fruitcake
Our England’s going to the dogs.
I stand upon the Saxon Shore
And peer through ever-thickening fogs.
So many things that I deplore!
White robed, black bearded demagogues,
Each with his mute attendant squaw,
Chant their appalling decalogues.
It’s not my country any more.
Our politicians root like hogs.
Parliament’s rotten to the core.
The people are no more than cogs
Forgetting what their freedom’s for.
We clatter round in peasant clogs.
We sniff the stinking hellebore.
We cakewalk with the gollywogs.
It’s not my country any more.
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