HOW TO BE ENGLISH (BY ST GEORGE)

I don't really know where this came from. Well, that's not true: first of all I suppose, it is actually St George's Day; that must have been the start of it.

However, when I started this poem, I had no idea it was going to end up saying what it says. No idea at all.

As a result of this, I feel like I should write some sort of disclaimer, like, The views expressed in this poem do not reflect the views of the person who wrote it... but that seems a bit ridiculous... because I did write it, every word of it.

So do poems always have to be a kind of extension of how the poet feels? Did Wordsworth secretly hate daffodils? Was John Betjeman to be found on frequent open-top bus tours of Slough?

While you ponder the great man taking in those 'bogus Tudor bars' for himself, or Wordsworth ripping up the Cumbrian hills in a shower of yellow petals and a fit of Nineteenth Century rage, I should point out that I wrote this from the perspective of St George... sort of. You'll see what I mean.

How To Be English (by St George)

Quosh a dragon, quaff an ale
Grab a wench and spin a tale
Belch an anthem, raise a cheer
Wash it down with frothy beer

Fly your flag with English pride
Tell 'em how that dragon died
Fiery English heart unquenched
To rule the waves and hate the French

Red as blood and white as snow
Our shining armour, dragons know
Show 'em all the bloodied spear
And watch 'em snake away in fear

Grab the treasure, clutch the gold
English spoils for men so bold
Lion hearts and dragons' blood
Trampled coins from foreign mud

Quosh a dragon, quaff an ale
Tell 'em how the knights prevail
Belch an anthem, raise a cheer
Wash it down with frothy beer