Ha Ha English

Why can't the English speak the truth?
Are we so civil, are we so anglicised?
In our stripy pyjamas, in our public houses,
What secrets do these tight lips hide?
A nation with too much history, too many heroes,
Too many carpets bulging with that swept under,
So now we don't speak in case we belch rudely,
We don't play cricket because it never stops raining,
We don't go through the door if we can go round the houses,
And we laugh, laugh so hard, at the irony of it all.

Why can't the English tie their own boot laces?
Are we so privileged? Are we so busy shouting?
In our guilty moments, in our filthy milky way,
What did Victoria do to Albert in that museum?
A nation with too much front and much left behind,
Too many Romany Rooney ruby faced lotharios,
So now we don't speak in case we belch loudly,
We don't play cricket because we never stop swearing,
We don't go through the door we go round the back passage
And we laugh, laugh so hard, at the irony of it all.

Laughing, laughing so hard,
All the way to the bank,
And back again,
Distraught,
Disgraced,
So hard,
Laughing,
At us,
Can't you see they're,
Laughing,
All the way,
To where the bank used to be,
Laughing,
So hard,
Aren't we?
 
(This is a flippant poem with a saucy sense of humour. The sort of humour you get on postcards at English seaside resorts. It feels like it must have been written near closing time in the local pub because of its mixture of hilarity and a sense of impending reckoning. It captures a hysterical sadness and hints at serious problems below the surface, unspoken, swept under carpets and contained by the English habit of irony, politeness and understatement. Even Wayne Rooney makes a surprise appearance as an icon of the times - distraught, disgraced. And our banks - distraught, disgraced. Ourselves - distraught, disgraced but still laughing. Aren't we?)