The Queen Sucks Nazi Cock

(not a Bob Dylan poem but highly amusing all the same!)

How I adore the lush green amour of my England
No tower blocks roar, smoke does not pour
To pollute my lush green England.
I salute my England
This subtle land
Where whispering breezes go hand in hand
With foxgloves
And the gentle down of dandelion feather
The heather pinks and purples
Streams rhyme and gurgle
Hares chase and hurdle
Across her morning moist dewy fields.
The hills and valley yield tenderly her softness and nobility
I’m a million miles from cruelty
Here in my lush green England
Floating o’er moor and lake
Impervious to trouble
It seemed nothing in this genteel land
Could burst my idyllic bubble.

So you must understand my surprise
Nay, my horror, my shock
When I found out that
The Queen sucks Nazi cock.
Yes, the Queen sucks Nazi cock.
Can you believe it

That someone so royal, so perfect
Could do something so heinous?
Your Royal Heinous, Elizabeth
The bastion of majesty
Orally caressing her husbands erectile racist penis
A right royal travesty
An unequivocal tragedy of unimaginable proportions.

Does this also mean my lush green England
Is merely a series of such abhorrent distortions
Sold as a package
To an over-eager, overseas market
Who see our history as nothing more than
Rolling hills, the Rolling Stones
And rolling red carpet?

The Queen sucks Nazi cock.
When I came to terms with it
There could be no more denial.
I stand
Stranded
A million miles away
Observing this septic isle
Saddened lonely
A solitary position
As my lush green England
Dissolves into
Chaos and division
Where an Englishman’s castle
Is the crumbling housing
On a drug-run council estate
Where the elderly live in fear
Relics of another age
Twisted by grief and rage
Bemused and broken
That they should be left to such a fate
In this lush green police state.

My England is a series of hells
Black bodies murdered in prison cells
A stark contrast to the green hills and fells
We’re force fed as our staple diet
Gorging on national identity.
I thought we were meant to be
Free citizens of democracy
Yet we sit content
And in judgement
To single out single mothers
As society's ultimate heresy.
It seems we never stop burning witches
And this is England
My England
Where the blue-bloodied Hanoverians
Are the true blue barbarians
Who rule over this stagnation and rot
How could they not
When the head of the highest family in all the land
Our Mother Protector
Her Royal Heinous the Queen
Sucks Nazi cock.

Slough

by John Betjeman (1906 - 1984)

John Betjeman published his poem about Slough in 1937 in the collected works Continual Dew. Slough was becoming increasingly industrial and some housing conditions were very cramped. In willing the destruction of Slough, Betjeman urges the bombs to pick out the vulgar profiteers but to spare the bald young clerks. He really was very fond of his fellow human beings. Slough is much improved nowadays and he might be pleasantly surprised by a stroll there.

Slough

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.