Fearsome Lion, Long In Tooth

Do I love this land, this Native home?

This sceptred Isle, this reborn Rome?

Or do I find through chance of birth,

A ill gotten romance for this rain soaked turf?

A land of charm, of nuanced wits,

Of gruesome scars, littered with disused Pits.

Grey stone skies bring me little merriment,

Nor do stiffened terraces forming gruesome regiment,

I love this nation as I do hate,

though its pompous legacy, does quickly grate.

And yet, that past of untold shame,

Gave this land of mine, immortal fame.

Nostaliga is for us, a very real risk,

 moving over bad spots with too great a brisk,

What do we do with the past we did inherit,

the one of deep bruises, mixed in its merit?

  Ours is a presence felt on every land and shore,

Few left undeafened by the warriors roar.

A people who stumble into Future’s maw,

Still reeling from decline and tiresome war.

Though the Lion’s mane may well be frayed,

Behold this modern world that it has made!

And while for better or for worse,

And now much lighter in her purse,

Britannia remains worthy of immortal verse!

Her history must never become her curse.