Poetry Day, England.

Rural England

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,

Your time  is  running  out, you’ve  lost  your  style.

Over crowded, over stretched, under valued, under siege

All that  is great is  gone, not  much left  for  us, is  there  my liege.

 

Our leaders  are all in disarray,

They have not  a  word of  truth to say.

Under last orders, under threat

That  we  are  sinking is  a safe  bet.

 

All our  hope  and  pride  are gone

Rule  Britannia a  worn out  song.

This is  my land  and I love it  dear

Sadly  sinking is  this  isle I fear.

Heaving cities