poem by: Cia
Britain I have given you everything, yet you still call me ugly
Britain why must you spit at the black and brown men on your television screens?
Britain, be quiet
I don’t want to hear about your love for jerk chicken and hummus and Indian takeaways Britain I know you love your Indian takeaways
When will you stop joking about the fact that red bindis
look like laser sniper laser targets to you?
Britain, are you jealous that I’ve got three eyes and you’ve got two?
Britain I’m still waiting for my England to come home
When will you stop pretending that the millions of black and brown soldiers you borrowed vaporised into the mists of wartime smoke?
Britain, don’t lie to me
Britain, come on
If I had a pound for every time you’ve asked me to say my name out loud
I’d be able to buy a gold chain spelling it out
Britain, you’re ugly
Britain begs the American outside his restaurant
for a pound with a coffee cup in hand
Britain you’re a machine, joints oiled by Sam’s
Britain I’ll kiss your feet if you comb my hair
Britain, the Empire’s striking back
Are you scared?
Britain, I’m sorry for being like this
God bless the NHS and all its phlebotomists
God bless the pearled old ladies who smile like clams
God bless your bus and train drivers with train tickets in their hands
Britain, thank you for trying to teach me how to respect the Shard
even though we both know it’s a total farce
Britain you have given me everything
but I still think it's ugly