07-30-2013, 10:26 AM
Third edit:
To be English is to be the shadow of an Empire,
the depressed brown grass that remains
when a castle has been torn down.
Our lords and ladies,
sacred relics meant to be admired but nothing else,
now flash their artifacts, for a price,
a shallow attempt at brotherhood,
while their suits of armour,
coats of arms, history of oppression,
crumble beneath them
as sand through an old man's fist.
Lady Sue and Lord Reggie are opening their doors,
revealing their plunder, at last, to the unwashed hordes,
to we peasants, we cretins, with our cameras
and fashionable shirts.
The slow death of the aristocracy,
who bathed their whores in Ireland's blood
and clothed them with its skin,
is a great comedy at which I guffaw
into my £1.99 ice cream,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces.
The royals remain, beneath a pretence of "tourism",
courting grubby dollars and Euros
like the streetwalkers they've become.
With each dying spasm comes an ascendance,
a paving with our Lordship's bones
the path towards enlightenment.
Here, the worthless - race, class, "Britishness" -
are replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul, and death,
that truly united kingdom.
Second edit:
To be English is to be the shadow of an Empire,
the depressed brown grass that remains
when a castle has been torn down.
Our lords and ladies,
once kept from the public like sacred relics -
meant to be admired but nothing else,
are flashing their artifacts at us, for a price,
in a shallow attempt at siblinghood.
They are one with their suits of armour,
their coats of arms, their history of oppression,
crumbling beneath them
as sand through an old man's feeble grasp.
Lady Sue and Lord Reggie are opening their doors
to the unwashed hordes, revealing their plunder at last
to us peasants, us cretins, with our cameras
and fashionable shirts.
The slow death of the aristocracy,
who bathed their whores in Ireland's blood
and clothed them with its skin,
is a great comedy at which I guffaw
into my £2 ice cream,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces.
The royals remain, beneath a pretence of "tourism",
courting grubby dollars and Euros
like the streetwalkers they've become.
With each dying spasm comes an ascendance,
a paving with our lordship's bones
the path towards enlightenment,
where the worthless - race, class, "Britishness" -
is replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul,
and death, that truly united kingdom.
First edit:
"I've got it now. I have to say - just look at these bloody rocks - "This a good place," and everyone laughs till the tears come." - Graham Greene, The Comedians
To be English is to be the shadow of an Empire,
or the depressed brown grass that remains
when a castle has been torn down.
Our lords and ladies,
once kept from public view like sacred relics
meant to be admired but nothing else,
are flashing their artifacts at us, for a price,
in a shallow attempt at faux-siblinghood.
They are one with their suits of armour,
their coats of arms, their history of oppression,
crumbling beneath them
as sand through a baby's fist.
Lady Sue and Lord Reggie are opening their doors
to the unwashed multitudes, revealing their relics at last
to us peasants, us cretins, with our cameras
and fashionable shirts.
The slow death of the aristocracy,
who bathed their whores in Ireland's blood
and clothed them with its skin,
is a great comedy at which I guffaw
into my £2 ice cream,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces.
The royals remain, beneath a pretence of "tourism",
courting grubby dollars and Euros
like the streetwalkers they've become.
With each dying spasm comes an ascendance,
a paving with our lordship's bones
the path towards enlightenment,
where the worthless - race, gender, "Britishness" -
is replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul,
and death, that truly united kingdom.
To be English is to be the shadow of an Empire,
the depressed brown grass that remains
when a castle has been torn down.
Our lords and ladies,
sacred relics meant to be admired but nothing else,
now flash their artifacts, for a price,
a shallow attempt at brotherhood,
while their suits of armour,
coats of arms, history of oppression,
crumble beneath them
as sand through an old man's fist.
Lady Sue and Lord Reggie are opening their doors,
revealing their plunder, at last, to the unwashed hordes,
to we peasants, we cretins, with our cameras
and fashionable shirts.
The slow death of the aristocracy,
who bathed their whores in Ireland's blood
and clothed them with its skin,
is a great comedy at which I guffaw
into my £1.99 ice cream,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces.
The royals remain, beneath a pretence of "tourism",
courting grubby dollars and Euros
like the streetwalkers they've become.
With each dying spasm comes an ascendance,
a paving with our Lordship's bones
the path towards enlightenment.
Here, the worthless - race, class, "Britishness" -
are replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul, and death,
that truly united kingdom.
Second edit:
To be English is to be the shadow of an Empire,
the depressed brown grass that remains
when a castle has been torn down.
Our lords and ladies,
once kept from the public like sacred relics -
meant to be admired but nothing else,
are flashing their artifacts at us, for a price,
in a shallow attempt at siblinghood.
They are one with their suits of armour,
their coats of arms, their history of oppression,
crumbling beneath them
as sand through an old man's feeble grasp.
Lady Sue and Lord Reggie are opening their doors
to the unwashed hordes, revealing their plunder at last
to us peasants, us cretins, with our cameras
and fashionable shirts.
The slow death of the aristocracy,
who bathed their whores in Ireland's blood
and clothed them with its skin,
is a great comedy at which I guffaw
into my £2 ice cream,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces.
The royals remain, beneath a pretence of "tourism",
courting grubby dollars and Euros
like the streetwalkers they've become.
With each dying spasm comes an ascendance,
a paving with our lordship's bones
the path towards enlightenment,
where the worthless - race, class, "Britishness" -
is replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul,
and death, that truly united kingdom.
First edit:
"I've got it now. I have to say - just look at these bloody rocks - "This a good place," and everyone laughs till the tears come." - Graham Greene, The Comedians
To be English is to be the shadow of an Empire,
or the depressed brown grass that remains
when a castle has been torn down.
Our lords and ladies,
once kept from public view like sacred relics
meant to be admired but nothing else,
are flashing their artifacts at us, for a price,
in a shallow attempt at faux-siblinghood.
They are one with their suits of armour,
their coats of arms, their history of oppression,
crumbling beneath them
as sand through a baby's fist.
Lady Sue and Lord Reggie are opening their doors
to the unwashed multitudes, revealing their relics at last
to us peasants, us cretins, with our cameras
and fashionable shirts.
The slow death of the aristocracy,
who bathed their whores in Ireland's blood
and clothed them with its skin,
is a great comedy at which I guffaw
into my £2 ice cream,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces.
The royals remain, beneath a pretence of "tourism",
courting grubby dollars and Euros
like the streetwalkers they've become.
With each dying spasm comes an ascendance,
a paving with our lordship's bones
the path towards enlightenment,
where the worthless - race, gender, "Britishness" -
is replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul,
and death, that truly united kingdom.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe