Aren't you?
Just a re-up for these two oldies, and for today I have granted Dr Amaral temporary citizenship, or perhaps I should make that Sainthood.
What a great country this is when the only public face to seek justice for Madeleine McCann is a Sardine Muncher. Pardon me I forgot the sweaty, and one or two other things.
And if that doesn't set your your blood racing, near bursts your heart with pride for this England, this green and pleasant land, then we don't want you in the BNP, thank you.
Oh to be in England now that April's election is here, and another clutch of fawning, disingenuous twats pander for our approval to which one of them we might allow to fuck us over for another four or five years
This democracy, how so it sets my heart on fire, I think I have a touch of the vapours, I must rest.
O, to be in England
Now that April 's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
Robert Browning
