To Be English

[tectak]

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, Maybe semi-colon, here
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, write "...my one ninety-nine ice cream" to avoid the one pound ninety-nine pence stumble.,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces. I can see you like mopey! mopey is a character trait so if you must! I would go for mopish but it's good that you hold out for your choice. Taking crit is always your option.

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" - I think you missed my point here. You are not grouping describable equivalents. What is your race? What is your class? What is your britishness ?(??)
are replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul, and death,
that truly united kingdom.
Hi hes,
Yes indeedee! There are areas where I would bully you into agreement with me but that is not how workshopping works...take what you want and ignore the rest. Good egg.
Best,
tectak
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.