Ode to Joy

or, The Robbers

Joyless glistening gods of Gammon,
Squalling brats of Albion,
Now you enter, drunk with Mammon,
Blaring Fascist clarion.
All is foreign, foul and Other!
Turn your backs upon this place:
Nary wog shall be your brother
While your fist can reach his face.

He who, in attempts successive
At a plush Westminster seat,
Made a showing unimpressive,
Seven times was soundly beat -
He perforce with bitter whining
Must now take his joys elsewhere
And must show up, plump and shining,
Where the Gammons pinkly glare.

All should know our island story
Whether Brits or lesser breeds:
Staunchly Royalist and Tory,
Plucky chaps at plucky deeds.
Here with enemies abounding,
Frog and Polack, Wop and Hun,
They, with ignorance astounding,
Still don't seem to know who won.

Gladly, like the vacuum-flight
Of the dead suns in the void,
Sit and spin, and stay annoyed,
Starry dwarfs, so dim and white.

Millions, let us embrace you
In our firm if sweaty grip!
In our wallets we'll encase you
While our rhetoric lets rip.
As our backs tell Brussels-loving
Traitors where they can get off,
Joyfully our fronts are shoving
Snout and trotters in the trough.

with apologies to Friedrich Schiller, Europe etc.