Welcome to France!

It was really ironic
There we were,
Oneself, the dog, my parents
Strolling through that ghost village
Known as Tyneham

Americans and Britons alike
Had blasted the handsome old cottages
Until they were no more
Than shells, smithereens, unstable ruins
We felt no different thanks to the weather

There we were
On the East Dorset coast
With the day hotting up muggily
And although there was no signal
My dad’s mobile still went “Bleep!”

He looked at it curiously
And then with immense surprise
“Who’s it?” My mother asked
“T-Mobile,” He replied,
“Saying, ‘Welcome to France!’”

“To France?” I repeated, shocked
“But this is England!” I added loudly
“What happened, did the French sneak in over night?”
“Or did that idiot Brown sign some old treaty and hand us over?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” My father muttered, still reeling

“Where’s the Tricolour?” I cried, “I’ll tear it down!”
Then I paused, a sudden revelation creeping in,
“… Strange,” I said, “here we are in Tyneham,
The inhabitants thrown out to replicate Normandy
And we get a text saying just that

“…”

“Rather ironic, no?”

And for the rest of that week,
When phones went bleep,
My father and I,
Scared the tourists and cried,
"Welcome to France!"