Your Majesty, Your Country Is Crumbling

Britain.
The land of hope and glory?
Not on this side of the fence, Your Majesty.

Yobs in hoodies lurk at every corner,
determined to make your life hell.
Cowards, unknowing of life's torments,
hands twitching for the gun.

Fighting should not be left to the streets,
drunken slurs of unmentionable words.
They only fight for pride, status,
just "rep-yhoo-tay-shun, innit".

You see, Your Majesty, Britain is crumbling.
Your glitter and gold hasn't spread this far.
No parliament or prime minister can sort this mess:
We can't put Britain together again.

Another gang comes, another goes.
Dirty glances dare the sunlight
to a war, who would win?
Society, for sure, surrendered too soon.

'Chavs' go round terrorising old ladies
like yourself, would you like to be beaten
around the head, with your own handbag?
No, I didn't think so.

So if you wouldn't like it, Your Majesty,
then why are we still suffering?
Not you, of course, no, silly me,
sitting there on your golden throne.

An innocent boy was killed, at eleven,
walking home from football practice.
Malicious scum snatching lives for fun.
Is this what Britain has come to, Your Majesty?

This sick country we live in must change soon.
Would you like to have your life taken?
We are crying out for a democracy,
we need someone, we need you.