Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2167012-The-Snob-Yob-Frog-in-the-Land-of-mix
Printer Friendly Page Tell A Friend
No ratings.
Rated: E · Poetry · Satire · #2167012
What happens when many cultures clash?
Into a tavern an American strides, on a quest to discover an Englishman's ways
Observing the gathered he suddenly spies, some well-to-do chaps with their pipes all ablaze
“Hey there you guys, Sam is the name”, He proudly announced to the well-tailored fray
“All the way from old Texas” he loudly proclaimed, “In the land of the free, the great USA”

A moustache of a man looked him up and down, and tipped his grand hat to Sam with a nod
“Greetings good fellow”, he said with a frown, “Welcome to Britain, by Queen and by God”
Sam shook their hands and tipped his large hat, and crunched his cigar, as he ordered a drink
“I'm here in this land to discover the fact, of what makes you English, what do you think?”

One chap among them, a plum-spoken gent, puffed out his chest and declared with an air
“My dear Yankee doodle, let me present, the cream of the realm, gentlemen rare
One can disclose the knowledge you need, our proud sovereignty, nobility and grit
Can show you the heritage that you're lacking indeed, and the true meaning of us being true Brits”

“Being English is cricket, and tennis and tea, and the triage of filles, and fox-hunting yarns
At castle and keep, sipping afternoon brandy, while frolicking maids are kissing in barns
Watching Stocks and the opera, reciting the bard, and true English heroes, the blue blood of old
Like Churchill and Thatcher, in such high regard, and Newton and Scott, the brilliant and bold

These are the things, dear Samuel, that make, this green pleasant land, so English and true
The spirit of Nelson, of Darwin and Drake, for glorious Britannia, the red white and blue”

As Plum finished preaching, he twirled his moustache, and held his head high awaiting the cheers
But none was forthcoming, and as minutes passed, a voice bellowed forth from a belly of beer
“Don't listen to Toff, Ee's out of his pram”, came the rough wheezy growl, approaching the fray
Standing bold and defiant, with tankard in hand, with hairy demeanour, started to say

“This geezer's a softy, a spoiled wealthy brat, who don't know this England, from the stuff that he spoke
Now let me inform you of the truth and the facts, of what makes a real Englishman bloke
Forget all the pompous, the silver and brass, the Lords and the Gentry, the horse-riding lark
The caviar and strawberries, and French crystal glass, that's not the England that's dear to our hearts

Real men have blisters, and lungs full of dirt, they eat chips and winkles, and drink cloudy ale
England is scrumpin, and pullin the skirt, and cheering on footy, and fishermen's tales
To be English is cloth caps, and pidgeons and pints, to stand in our union, with the oppressed
It's greyhounds and betting, and Christmas tree lights, with our spam and and our jam, and our blessed NHS

And real English heroes, ain't silver spoon folk, but those that must struggle and fight for a break
Like our Tolpuddle martyrs, who loosened our yolk, Bobby Moore and Nai Bevin, these are our greats
Thomas and Bowie, Mcartney and Quo, and Cooper our fighter, who knocked Goliath down
We real English people, who carved life from stone, from our green hills and valleys, and our crammed little towns

So listen here mate, and learn what we are, a land of hard grafters, who weather all storms
With strong hearts and cheer, we have come far, for with such a spirit, Great Britain was born”

So yob declared, then swigged from his beer, backed by the chorus of lads in his mob
But just as the crowd were howling with cheer, a new voice was heard, that closed all their gobs
He pranced into view with red wine in his hand, and stood in their midst and started to speak
With accent so strong, he now made his stand, addressed the large crowd, as he stood on his seat

“Misseurs and madams, these pretenders are wrong, they know not what's true of this little Isle
For history shows to the French it belongs, as I will demonstrate in a short while
For two centuries, it's sovereign was France, and it's language reflects this reality still
It began when across the channel did dance, your true king of old, conquering Will

You Eenglish learned French, our laws and our ways, and married our folk and Frenched up your clothes
We taught you valour, the knights of our days, and brought you garlic, to bother your nose
And to this day, you still speak our tongue, in everyday things, and places and names
French kisses and fries, Sol is for sun, French polishing and doors, and croquet, a French game

And so your true nobles, Frenchmen no less, are the real English heroes, true ones of fame
Like Joan and dear Louis, and Charlemagne the blessed, good old Napolean, and Zinedine Zedane
For this is your heritage, your roots and your lot, this is our England, and your are French, sirs
This annex of Francais, this green little spot, we fondly regard as, Anglataire Sur-la-Mer”

As the Frenchman stepped down, quite chuffed with his speech, the room was in silence, so gobsmacked and shocked
But one more was to come, to implore and impeach, with a claim to old England, now addressed the flock
“Bueno, bueno, dear Frog and misguided senoirs, a noble attempt but, stupido and wrong
You forget your true background, this land is not yours, it was born from us Romans, To Italia it belongs
Caeser was first, with Hadrian's wall, to keep out the riff-raff, and claim all land below
We built cities and towns, and united them all, from Londinium to louth, with our great Roman roads,

And we taught you barbarians to cease from your grunts, and embrace noble Latin, the language of prose
Gave you saunas and plumbing, to fight your cold fronts, and wine by the flagon to drown all you woes
Defended this island from the ravaging hordes, like the vicious old Vikings, who kept you on your toes
Equipped your poor soldiers with Italian leather and swords, shared perfect pizzas, and fine Gucci clothes

And the real English stock, are Italian brewed, Like Galileo and DaVinci, the wisest of men
Marconi and Michleangelo, and Pinnochio of wood, and Gian franco Zola and Sophia Loren
So when speaking of English, and what it endows, remember this land is only on loan,
For England means Italy, and bid others ciao, for all England's roads will lead you to Rome”

Now at the end of these claimants, confusion set in, and the baffled tavern patrons were all in a daze
For no-one now knew, how England begins, or what on earth represented an Englishman's ways

But Sam, he was beaming, was crowing with glee, and raised his hat high in triumph and praise
Twirled his hat in his hands, standing firm as a tree, and boldly addressed the crowd who were dazed

“It's clear to y'all, good folk, is it not, that none of those here can stake a true claim
For this island it seems is a mixed melting pot, and on-one is English, only in name
You're a rag tag of strangers, from lands far away, and England is vacant, this I can see
So I'll gladly now claim it, for the good old USA, the land of the brave and the home of the free”

A din now erupted, and loud voices were heard, and the crowd were offended at old Sam's demands
Indignant and angry at this fellow's nerve, and his bid for the taking of their own homeland
One after another, they responded to him, and challenged his audacious claim for the realm
That England would be a subservient kin, with them as the passengers, and USA at the helm

Moustache spoke up first, and challenged ole Sam, and quoting his words, berated his claims
“Look here, my good fellow, I'm offended I am, you slander our nations, with your grandiose aims
By saying such things of your own land out west, you imply rotten things with your patriot rave
That we all lack courage, and are less than the best, that we are all cowards, who are weak and enslaved”

“Old Snob is right, mate,
” the Cokney bloke chimed, “Ow dare you try grab this old land where I grew
So what if our roots are a little entwined, we're all here to stay now, and that much is true
You Yanks ain't so different, in where you come from, your a lucky dip bag, with surprises galore
With Indian, eskimo, shall I go on? You wandered from England and Italian shores”

The Frenchman stepped up, could hold back no more, and joined in the engagement with great zeal and zest
“The Yob is spot on, but he's missing some more, don't forget Aztecs and Germans and the rest
And what of our names, and our places you took, the new replication of our glorious towns
New Orleans, and old Boston, New England, New York, your cheek and audacity know of no bounds”

Now a pin dropping then would have been a loud noise, as the multitude there ceased their attack
For old Sam stood there now, silently poised, confused and confounded, firmly gobsmacked
He pondered their words, and finally spoke, with a softer tone, he himself now set
For his pride had been prodded, his stride was now broke, he now offered them some form of regret

“Gee all you fellas, I may have been brash, I meant you no harm or disrespect
My presumptuous claim I'll recant in a flash, because to England's defence you have leapt
But, if I'm not American, and we don't belong, then nothing is sacred and no-one is free
Then I now pose a question to this mixed up throng, what is this land and who the hell are we?"

There were muttering and mumbling, and confusion reigned, as each gave some thought to this perplexing affair
The jury was out and the question remained, no answer forthcoming, from anyone there
Finally, from near the door came a sound, a voice that was new now spoke to the pack
As the mish-mash of gentlemen all turned around, they beheld a tall figure standing there at the back

“What troubles you friends?” he asked with a smile, “This problem it only exists in your minds
While searching your ancestry all of this while, you left your identities and meaning behind
There is no mystery to solve and uncover, it is simple and plain as the nose on your face
You're not English or French nor any other, you are brothers and sisters of the great human race

You don't need your boundaries, or borders or flags, you all have the same desires and fears
Whether black white or red, in robes or in rags, you all fall in love and shed many tears
And your children don't see USA or UK, but only a playmate who will share all their fun
Who don't want to fight but just want to play, and share the same water, same air and same sun

All the nations proclaim that they are best, that theirs is the right way to live from our birth
They claim they're united, and have passed all the tests, and that man's institutions can salvage the earth
United Nations and States and Kingdoms and such, yet paranoid and divided by the nationalist call
But all of this rhetoric doesn't mean much, for the truth is, dear brothers, we are God's children all”

© Copyright 2018 Moomintroll (hemmullenn at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2167012-The-Snob-Yob-Frog-in-the-Land-of-mix