Alas! Poor Britain!

Behold! Since Blair’s ascendance
A Declaration of Dependence!
We dare not swallow, cough or sneeze
Without the okay, if you please,
Of the boss, non-resident,
Called the U.S President.
Does he care for us a jot?
The answer is, no, not a lot.
We’re only on his radar screen
When he’s concerned with gasoline,
And needs the obsequious provision
Of the odd Marine division,
To secure for his own ends
Some oil wells for his business friends;
Hoping he, as heretofore,
Can get some cover for his war.

For Bush a vassal state is great.
You get your way without debate.
No awkward Congress, or a Press,
Just one phone call, and, lo! success.
No lobbying, no bribes, no stress
Just speak to Blair, he’ll answer “Yes”.
So what if voters all deplore
An unprovoked, illegal war?
“The issues are misunderstood,
All we do is for your good.
Encountering an onion skin
We’ll just resort to lies and spin.”

Once there was a well-known test
Called the “National Interest”.
Was this or that intended goal
The best for Britain as a whole?
In matters both of war and peace
Advantage was the centerpiece,
And politicians of all nations
Cared for it more than for ovations.
Now medals from a foreign donor
Boost the media persona,
And substance loses pride of place
To pose and show and public face.
And lives and injuries mean less
Than winning plaudits from the Press.
And taxes spent are chickenfeed
If place in History is agreed.

Oh what a stricken, star-crossed land
Dealt such a poor and luckless hand!
Nothing known has been improved,
The social net all but removed;
Our parliament castrated,
The elected now subordinated,
And rule is by nonentity
And cult of personality.
And legislation, once the nation’s
Is at the beck of corporations.
In all we’re headed for the fates
Of all those once-United States
Where government seeks consolation
By acting for just half the nation.

It seems not such a distant date
When people called this Britain “great“.
Now, influence reduced by half,
Such words deserve a hollow laugh.
Our President ignores everyone;
All is now football, sex and “Sun”.
The national anthem, once so proud
Is now ignored, not sung out loud.
A newer version now is planned
For this uneducated land.
And this is how the anthem starts
Although we quote the better parts:
God save our Posh and Becks
Offer them due respecks,
Long may they rain…..

The Sun: a British tabloid owned by Rupert Murdoch, who dictates British foreign policy. The Sun is devoted to dividing Britain from the EU, big breasts and crude jingoism in the manner of the New York Post

Posh and Becks: Posh is Posh Spice of the Spice Girls, a good-looking woman with an I.Q approaching that of a tailor’s dummy. She is married to David Beckham, famous British soccer player. Together they daily appear in every tabloid and bore the public to tears. Apparently, this sells tabloids.