by Rob Atkins
It must have been like this
As the English matriarch failed,
The menfolk fuelling empire
The women taking over by the bed;
Some of them she bore,
The rest she helped give birth
And now they walk all along the rows
To help her over,
Emancipated.
Down the corner shop, some spuds,
A couple of carrots,
A big onion:
The last strike bit hard,
The General yet to come,
To be prepared;
Curse the name of Churchill, they spit
And pour old stock into the big pot,
Skimming off the froth.
From hour to hour she’s much the same,
Today from day to day declining;
Some say a week,
Maybe a little more
But not as much as ten days;
Almost a century will evaporate
To Somerset and Birmingham,
West Wales, Blaina, Cwmtillery:
As it was, it is and ever shall be.
