There’s no such thing as an Englishman,
He really doesn’t exist.
There was never a castle, a moat, a drawbridge,
His house failed to subsist.
There’s no such thing as an Englishman,
With blood deep blue, and skin ghost white.
There’s no such thing as fists of red,
Shaking in varicosed fright.
Because an Englishman is part Scot, part Gael, part Celt,
Part Saxe, part Franco, part Serb.
He’s part Indo, part Carib, part Sino;
Part Arab, part Thai, part disturbed.
His blood is a Mishra mash of madness,
of cultures a-far and a-near,
He doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going,
So he curse, he shout and he swear.
Because an Englishman is part woman,
Part he-man, part her-man, part sha-man.
Scratch an Anglo and there’s a vigorous hybrid,
In a gene pool of shimmering light;
Their bloods are the colours of mud and of sand
Their bones, the tastes of the sun and the strand;
Their tongues, taste the moon rising high in the sky
And falling rains, wash away, the tears in their eyes.
Their nerves weren’t forged in Sheffield,
But in Scotia, near and afar.
Their guts were shaped in Islamabad,
And the restaurants and bazaars of Belfast.
Their oaths don’t belong to king and country,
But to their brothers, their sisters, their cousins.
Swearing allegiance, history and platitudes
Till their shoes are glued to their feet.
There’s no such thing as an Englishman,
He just doesn’t exist,
And those who would want to deny this,
Are deluded, foolish, trapped fish.
The deniers, the nay-sayers and dandies,
Who are looking to protect their list,
Had better beware, their game is to scare
But they won’t.
The dance of the Englishman is over.
drnickombe 