A reworking of an earlier classic:

This flush-ed throne of kings, this septic isle,
This earth of dysentery, this seat so foul,
This other Eton; all others cast as nought.
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Doth breed infection, faecal stench and more.
Unhappy breed of men, this little world,
This noxious stone, set in a septic sea
Some wish would serve the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against asylum from less happier lands.
This fetid plot, this earth, this realm, this England
This curse, this seeping wound of loyal serfs
Who hold the future leader in their hands
Renowned as bigots, far from the pains of life.
These few, these scrappy few, hold hustings vile
Where two inadequates hold forth,
Lead all to ransom, quake and so to fear
What future holds in days and times to come.
Wild speculators suck up all the gold
Whilst poor and not so poor do fret and ask
To eat, to heat? What will become of us?
Cut taxes! Screams the heir most like
To win, as if this would cure ev’ry ill.
We’ll find, alas too late! This bitter pill
Will make things worse, against our will.
Shall workers all rise up and down their tools
Or new and vicious law ban this as well?
While those from other lands avert their gaze
And realising gone our glory days.
That England, that still yearns to conquer others,
Hath made a foolish conquest of itself.
Ah, would these vandals vanish from my life,
And happier times and wiser counsel rise!