Babies in “I love al-Qaida” hats
are pushed by Nike-shod girls through undersexed
throngs who chant of drowning us in vats
of burnt dismembered flesh, their muscles flexed,
their blameless treason tying Britain in plaits.
Sergeants guard them by the law book’s text.
Beside Big Ben and Winston Churchill’s statue
Dave parades his “Down with Trousers!” banner.
A fat inspector warns, “Sir, if I catch you
with that sign again, forgive my manner,
I’ll have to crush you like a roasted cashew
underneath my steel-tipped, shiny, flat shoe
and run your DNA below a scanner.
Freedom’s illegal this side of the manor.”
