Cry “God for Harry, England and St. George” I have
Imprinted on my heart’s door, across the collars
Of my soul’s clothing and fairy light lit along
The walls of my enlightenment. And now I find
Its meaning leaning more on me for my support;
Imploring my participation and awaiting my
First move towards the inevitable glory of today.
And whilst lying in the shadow of his flag, shape
Shifting in his pants, he said to me “Daddy this is
For your own” and so we visited my father’s stone
And placed the saint’s cross upon the soil amid the
Roses we had brought; arrayed in red and white
As if a brave Knight’s chest had bled its holy
Blood for preservation on his grave’s virgin cloth.
And though the beasts of myths and ruse are
Queuing to accuse we will not be made the
Scapegoat of their spokesmen, and will not yield
To the apologists who would have us suffer
The guilt of ages for simply standing with our
Own flag in our hands and demanding a proper
Slot in the calendar for its waving and savouring.
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