England Of My Heart Poem by Frank Bana

I'm feeling love for the England of my heart
I'm tired of those who deride you for unfixed teeth and boiled food
Poor drinking habits and guardian Queen
When you are better, beautiful in your what-the-hell
Of unprincipled tolerance and half-assed prejudice -
Too lazy to be serious and a whole lot better than the full-assed kind.

Well England, only a third of you actually voted for Thatcher
And still fewer would admit it now. Although as I recall
You did it three times. Well England,
You coined the delicious name, B.Liar, when that bloke
Proclaiming the dawn of justice hustled us down the war crimes road
And I hear you embraced Joe Strummer and chicken masala
When fish and disco became hard to find.

Home of the National Trust, home to throngs of animal lovers
Constantly irritated by the sight of children. But you'll learn,
I know you'll learn to love 'em in time. You decolonized.
You never let us down.
I'm one of your happy Jews and
It took you just eight centuries to love us too.

This love for England grows in my heart
With every episode of East Enders glimpsed in exile
And with each new young nurse and African soccer star
England gathers in the talented poor, grudgingly.
The daily rags and politicos play to the stands, but the crowd
Does not really hate the immigrant, it is more concerned
With flowers in the garden and neighbours down the road.

England holds its messy barbeques on impromptu summer nights
And exports beautiful games it is never very good at
Litterbugs and lovers sprawl in the glorious green parks
Half-listening to Bolero and the 1812.
England is no expert at either love or war
But wins your heart and saves the world for fairness and sports
At the last gasp, the eleventh hour, just before closing time.

England is a home with half-open doors, constructed with delays and flaws
But open to perfection, one small step at a time.
Who could not love an imperfect child? And who could not find
A pennyworth of love for my dear old Aunt
Who calls me 'duckie' when she gets me on the blower
Who curls her toes when I reply, across the pond,
'Hi there my love, my England fair and fine'?