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Moving England

Author:

A writer who likes the text to speak for itself. And likes people who speak for themselves, too.

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How We Moved England


We had problems attaching the lines

At Cape Wrath, saboteurs had fired the port.

The Mull of Kintyre, though chain-wrapped and well-guarded,

Crumbled under the strain and subsided in a splash.


A line from Cromer to Southend,

Sat upon by locals for its entire length,

Held firm, until opening time.

When things went awry.


From Anglesea, came reports,

Of Druids rising from the Straits,

To whip the engineers, with sacred oaken limbs.

These were treated to an official grin,

But not absolutely denied.


So to be sure,

After these embarrassments,

We circled the island entirely

With ten point steel.

The links were made at Gary, Ohio,

And we brought in a fleet of

Tugboats from Mars.


The French lent a hand, pushing from the South,

Tired they said, oddly, of ill-humour and greed.


And, eventually, after a year,

Of pushing and pulling,

Of purges and pogroms,

The seabed gave up its grip.


We lurched northward with a surprising "plop",

A tooth pulled from the continent's jaw.


The Irish we left behind.

The Scots had no choice,

And came for the ride.

Anyone who jumped ship,

We had dangled from a flagpole.

To encourage the fainthearted.


The voyage was a breeze,

Mostly in our faces.

When we squeezed through the narrows by Faeroe,

The locals threw seaweed, after their lobster pots overflowed.

One shouted "no more cod for your chips from here!"

There were obscenities, too, mostly in foreign,

Wasted on us.


We hurried past Iceland, with hardly a wave.

Dodged the squadrons of icebergs,

Launched by mischievous sprites,

Made a sharp left, and after some delicate reversing

Brought the Home Counties in, under the jowls of New York.


We had expected a party,

But the Yanks hardly cared.

That did not stop our hoorahs! And a chap on TV,

Told us it was "history".


Now we can commute on the red eye,

And marvel at the Orange Man,

On the opposite shore.

Brooding, alone, a beacon of the forlorn.

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