The breasts of Britain nurse
the famished of the world,
their fullness overflows
the greedy mouths of sin
to be, which grow averse
to tribute paid, and swirled
the spout whose maelstrom grows
to drown all it draws in.

Since Spain and France were slow
to dance, John Bull inspired
the ball to masquerade;
tired of their pirouette
that aging gigolo
would waltz when he desired,
like Le Marquis de Sade
he'd wear their garters yet.

From Macbeth's tartan skirt
atop his craggy moor,
to Flanagan's redoubt
and Welchman cobby horse
none wears the others shirt,
for stink they can't endure.
Independence, the shout,
where blood begs no remorse.

--Fr. Veni di Morte



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