St George's Rose

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Our modern rule wears shiny dark hued suits,
Open necked and shirt sleeves rolled,
Showing us he walks in our boots,
Covering his hatred of those polled.
Slick and smooth his speech is art.
To say such much but give no meat,
As in his chest there beats no heart,
No feeling for our English street.
Another crow, he circles over
Picking bones that were once a nation.
A fresh blank slate he pushes closer,
Tradition crumbles to his elation.
A false choice we’re given, a fall forbode,
By kicking consequences down the road.
Our future rule wears St George’s rose,
In his steps England’s last hope grows.