Something great happened here once, but its finished.
Britannia, the Archipelago- the poorest colony of the Roman Empire- the conquest and war breathed into it by the great religions and mythologies of Scandinavia, Anglia, Saxony, the Celts and the Picts. What remains is rubble.
A rubble denied to what remains of native Britons. £20 to visit our great culture, or £20 to feed yourself for a week, hunched over a bowl of carbohydrates. A last source of energy for men and women whom grey streaks and bags fall beneath their eyes. Like teabags, their ancestry is felt in all the great nations of the world. English common law, Christendom-all the way even from Constantine's ascent to Emperor to the Tudors of old. The greatest innovators, explorers, scientists of the modern world.
Increasingly, the Britons are washed up. Tea bags left too long... expired. Tossed aside. Their gains taken for granted, and their body of work, their soul tossed aside.
The soul of the Englishman is drenched. A universal alcoholism is the pool the English Narcissus drowns in- seeing their stained reflection.
Perfidious Albion, the sick man of Europe. Sold and flogged into self-serving slaves- among the richest of the world and we sell our own away.
Even the trees, the rivers and skies talk here. The rivers, an undercurrent of fury, the trees are suspicious, branches wicked- if we don't cut them as Sycamore Gap... The English Oak fell between the milecastles and what remains is a land led by Will O' Wisps trapped in tablets, and guiding their possessed through the rains and mist of England.
A country that celebrates the death of its Queen- for a bank holiday to shuffle more cash in slot machines and huddle over mushy carbohydrates. The Britons once again became a slave race, as ancient Rome saw.
Expired pride in a beer bottle.