Clapped Out Anglia

And its toes hurt from being too big for its boots
And its feet were anchored like a dead tree’s roots.
And its soles were covered in guilty scars.
And its boots were made for walking though these days it went by car
Till it piled on weight through lack of labour
And its knees ached like a retired footballer

Fuming in a queue trying to get away to the seaside.

And its belly was full of fattening treats
And its dreams were influenced by late-night cheese
And its spine was a motorway started by slaves
And its limbic system was sketched on the walls of caves
And its neck was cricked from looking back
And its memory was like my senile mother’s; well, you have to laugh

Fuming in a queue trying to get away to the seaside.

And its heart was an object of bitter arguments
And its heart was located by inaccurate measurements
And its heart was broken by inevitable penalties
And its heart beat faster when looking out to sea
And its heart beat stronger when all people got the vote
And its heart was left in a seafront disco

Fuming in a queue trying to get away to the seaside.

And its fingers smelled of many pies
And its dying jokes were rescued by Morecambe and Wise
And its suit was tailored but didn’t half niff
And its hair was like an old Ted’s quiff
And its conscience was apt to nip out for a fag
As its hands rummaged in its pocket for a flag

Fuming in a queue trying to get away to the seaside.

And its eyes were bigger than its belly
And its teeth were chalk cliffs chattering into jelly
And its accent changed as the weather got more chilly
And its mouth spoke Norse translations of Stormzy
And its eyes looked outwards but pretended not to
like a teenage lad on a fence at a girls’s school

Fuming in a queue trying to get away to the seaside.

And its head was full of apples and glaciers
And its shoulders were pit props collapsed on miners
And its ears remade foreign sounds as its own
And its nose ran from Autumn till early June
And its conscience opted for trial by jury
So it couldn’t believe it wasn’t the good guy

Fuming in a queue trying to get away to the seaside.