Whose George Is It Anyway?

I submit to no patron and acknowledge no saint;
No Lord owns my labour and a catholic I ain’t;
And it wasn’t by Jingo or by George or by God,
For freedom was earned – not agreed on the nod.
If I cannot be whipped or be bought or be sold,
I owe it to those who fought tyrants of old.

But I won’t celebrate that crude patriotic stuff;
As a brave woman said, it is never enough.
There’s hope in forbearance, in wisdom hard won,
And virtue fades fast down the barrel of a gun.
So my heart doesn’t swell as the anthem rings out,
And my soul is unmoved when red crosses wave about.

Yet do not be deceived, or me, misunderstand,
For I too was born in this green, pleasant land.
I adore the white cliffs and the blue remembered hills,
The mellow mists of autumn and the spring daffodils;
Such hallows I cherish, but I never could see,
Why a dubious saint should hold meaning for me.

Oh England, my Motherland, where has history led?
Past glories and empire, built on bones of the dead.
You’ve nurtured great notions, yet once were times when
Your people sailed ships that made chattels of men.
There are good things and bad you’ve bequeathed to mankind;
But most worthy’s the tongue that your children designed.

Now it’s time to throw George and his dragon away;
And henceforth – let’s honour Will Shakespeare this day.