Flat-pack Britain: whey-supplemental land of muscular hydroponics. Frazzled pound shop of yummy imperial mummies – And their Daves – Chomping at the bull-dog bit From Hadrian’s folly to the Tunnel Sous la Manche. Bitter seabord Britain and the bitterns that nest it; Norman Bretagne sailed their half-pound piece That hearty, silver heptagon of yore, Trawled from pockets, Liz-side up. Fit-bit Britain: ley-lines energise her car parks; Water-mill gymn bunnies vape on her forecourt, Illusion-smitten by Amnesiac flyers Reviving 2-step: back to ‘04. NIMBY Britain: domain of privatised lives Dogged by Leylandii. Flatus-powered Northern outhouses List, barely buoyed upon Camelot froth. Shake my hand. This was Blake’s land. Will you tickle my palm? Silicon Britain, Exurban MILF epicentre; Tom, Dick and Mohammed – Jedis to a man – Thrup the bitcoin Boudicca beneath grey-fade union flags; Crypto-Cromwells take the knee; Pixel roundheads abound; Regicides weep for the insta. Plebiscite Britain, Yolkmen denied their ploughs, A Britain of half the talents, half the wit, idiot-village: Everyman watches the watching. Everyman! Button-hungry And judged. William Morris arcs through the pylons here, Nature-trail families take the Happy Meal. Call-centre swordsmen, stone-stuck, Chant at the screen: One-nil, to the Albumen! -*- Woodwork-dwellers they were No longer: lice and worms drawn out By the acid rain that douses all In the Magna Carta and rights. One among them – a testifier – can recite lengthy passages by rote While her colleagues stand proudly by, before the incantation summons some John Bull of The Den, an obvious golem, Clagging the vacuum with silty threat. What they wish for is unclear Though their sense of justification is acute. They respond to the whistles and they find a camera. The rites continue.