He would rather be in prison

He would rather be in prison

Than beneath the arches

Where a battalion

Of old souls and veterans

Bivouac

Under canvas and cardboard

There is no television.

The brazier he warms his hands against

Burns like a beacon

Lands End to John O’ Groats

“God save the King”

Is sung

He can hear it from the White Hart

On the corner

With the Union Jack bunting

And flags of St George.

When it empties

The good folk will spew out

Onto the street

Hobnails on their feet

They love to put the boot in

As if their lives depended on it

As if they ever did.

The ex-servicemen

In their ranks tend to be cooks

And clerks

Not paras or special forces.

The only PTSD they have

Is from childhood trauma,

Some would use that to excuse

The ugliness of their display.

Anybody who is different,

“Go back home” they chant

When he is.

There used to be a few Polish guys

But they did go home

Now their economy is on the up.

It is better to be in Poland

Than England

Post Brexit.

He wished that he could follow

Anywhere but here

Could be a mantra

For both sides of this phoney war.

When the fireworks light the sky

He will sigh

Like all the rest

He likes a good display

But wears earplugs and a headscarf

Explosions splinter reality

So much for the big bang.

He could do with a knee’s up

Around a piano

For the camaraderie.

The last time he felt at home

Was three thousand miles away.

A different world

Where they were all in it together

United

All for one

Undivided

Under the sun

He should have died then.

Perhaps he did.