Ballad of the bigoted Brexiteer

Our latest Boris Brexit leaflet came through the letterbox today containing this poem:
We want our country back,
Our land of merry virgins
Prancing on the sward,
Maiden bigots cycling
To wicker-burning
And Alfie Garnett
Giving it to Johnny Foreigner.
We want our country back,
Our land of happy drunks
Cracking mud-glued frogs
In the mire of Agincourt,
Britons never being slaves
Because they buy and sell them
In choking, noisome holds.
We want our country back,
Children crawling up chimneys
And every one white as chalk
When you scrape off the soot,
Chirpy northerners in their clogs
Linking arms with Gracie Fields
As they bound along
To trap their limbs up at t’mill.
We want our country back,
Grovelling kids sitting in serried rows,
Struck by dusters,
Flogged, ensconced in Dunce’s caps,
Ushered into darkened rooms
To be caned by cape-swathed masters
While their betters
Play the Eton game with lumps
Of bloodied fag.
We want our country back,
Colour bars, men-only bars
Mars bars that taste of real chocolate-
At least if you shut your eyes
And ignore the colour,
Crown green bowling
With severed heads
And Albert Pierrepoint
Perfecting the hangman’s noose.
We want our country back,
Sex in the dark,
Bowlers in the park,
Sound of the ascending lark,
Knee-length knickers
W G Grace stickers,
Underpaid Cockney pickers
Choking the hop fields,
White birds over the white cliffs
Of Dover, Fortress Britain
Just you wait and see.
We want our country back,
Vera Lynn and old Will Hay,
No LGBT or mouthy gay,
Jimmy Jewell, black and white minstrels
On black and white TVs,
Sing Something Simple,
A nun in her wimple,
A flabby arse,
A fiery pimple.
We want our country back,
Green Shield stamps
And old gas lamps,
England beating the Krauts
Four to two,
One-eyed Nelson
With his jolly crew,
The umpire, the Empire,
The world map pink through and through.
We want our country back,
Guy Mitchell and Alma Cogan,
Moors Murders
And Mini cars,
Coronation mugs, Super Mac,
Saucy postcards
And chauvinist cack,
Bland, boiled food,
The right to be rude,
Fruit that’s stewed.
We want our country back
Bojo ruling the world,
Gove at his side,
A rampant God,
Farage in a jewel-crusted carriage,
Matron in charge-
No bloody commie NHS-
Our blue, remembered hills.
Oh England, oh Albion,
Oh, I’ve peed myself,
I’ll keep on taking the pills.

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