Take away culture
Your hometown was panini-ed and frappé-ed.
It was mocha-ed, latte-ed, pulled then crafted.
Your birthplace, that square of South East London
you cherished and shared with your family
and friends is gone.
The area’s been knocked down,
updated and gentrified.
This process
is inevitable, unstoppable.
They’re building palaces for Big Business.
Your London’s been gobbled up by Crossrail,
rebuilt by “considerate contractors.”
They’re creating a bespoke capital
for overseas investors with capital.
Revamped London does not belong to you.
The city’s economy and ecosystem are
changing forever
for no good reason.
Full of English
I’m British and I comfort eat.
I eat because I’m British.
Stiff upper lips crave fish and chips,
kebabs and battered sausage.
Junk food’s the way to cope with life,
it dampens down emotion.
I’m British, I won’t make a fuss.
I’ll never cause a commotion.
I’m British so I comfort eat,
I binge because I’m British.
Uncertainty breeds anxiety
and I need sugar and sausage.
“Media’s to blame,” I crow online,
swallowing whole the Same Old Story.
Bloated, I stagger down high streets
puking England’s ‘Power and Glory.’
I’m British and I comfort eat.
I eat because I’m British.
Stiff upper lips crave fish and chips
and the right to remain English.