Cross of Saint George flies high in beer garden.
This flag, besmirched by racist history,
Beloved by English Defence League thugees,
Now adopted in sheer desperation,
By those who believe they still mean something,
To those communities so long ignored,
Whose votes, taken for granted, in Blair years,
Now needed again to bolster careers.
Mandelsonian scoundrels in their last,
London based, refuges, venture Northwards,
In a futile attempt to emulate,
A distorted vision of Englishness.
Unlike Welsh, Scottish and Irish neighbours,
There’s no English culture behind the cross.
Artificial football loyalty schemes,
Incorporated into Britannia,
Cannot be subsumed by socialism,
Without recognition of history.
Labour on the cross? Self crucifixion.
Desperation leads not to born again,
Only to irrelevant derision.
Hardie spins ever faster in his grave.
Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 26th April 2021.