Black buffed leather-tongued brogues with oat-
meal socks and khaki y-fronts, pleated slacks,
pert navy and gold striped double-windsored tie
on a twill non-iron white hassle-free shirt,
stiff blazer, wool felt bowler, dead white
gloves and orange sash with silver tassels,
marching onward, left, right, elbows tight
to lambegs, banners, fifes, rows of waving
wives, marching onward, in formation, marching
on a Judas nation by the Queen’s highway,
the town’s High Street, roundabouts where forked
roads meet and never yield, marching to the field
of battle, field of peace, field patrolled by plain-
clothed police; field of Jesus, field of hope, field
of Bush and fuck the Pope; marching onward into
heaven to scourge its halls of unwashed brethren;
then a blue bus home, content with your labours,
to watch Countdown and your favourite, Neighbours.