Collars Up

Everyone’s making cheese
Freckled with fiction
And stolen personalities,

Collars are up for the weekend,
There’s a songbook for idiots
And a handshake for the poor,

Bitter aspirations are popping
Like filched Prosecco bubbles
Fizzing wildly as the sun sets,

Cheap labour smiles all crooked
Serving fillet steaks and fries
In broken English

And en masse on the lawns,
All banter and mythology
The chosen circle themselves and feast.

Everyone’s wearing chinos,
There’s a tide of vermillion,
Great Britain’s red and rustling,

There are silver spoons rattling,
Hoorays to the hillsides
And to yacht shoes well buffed,

There’s enough gush
You could drown here
Or curl up and slowly die,

We were led here by sycophants
And their whistled songs
Now cry.

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