A Hymn for Silent Bells

All cheer the silent, unstruck bells,

as the Dunkirk spirit slowly wells,

in drink as the golden hour comes,

the discontent among us hums.

And we are waiting for the man.

We islanders, bantam, chippy, mongrel race

care not for whatever odds we face,

and if a challenge does not exist,

we’ll start a conflict with a fist.

And we are biding our sweet time.

For it is always “us” and “them”,

our Albion is our priceless gem;

Angles, Saxons, the occasional Jute

that we are pure none can refute.

And we are singing Norman songs.

We are Britannia, we waive the rules

take us not for Euro-fools,

we resile; refuse your scot to pay,

forever to go our own bleak way.

And we are using Chinese phones.

There are "they" and there are "we",

as ever was, so shall it be,

the knee unbent, no servile sham

under the boot of Uncle Sam.

And we are eating processed food.

We shout and rant for spleen

- and country - god help the queen,

bless the rich and damn the rest,

begone the dark and uninvited guest.

And we are losing our own souls.