An Ynglysshe Poweme

The Archebyshoppes Tayle

Whan in Februar, withe hise global warmynge
Midst unseasonabyl rain and stormynge
Gaia in hyr heat encourages
Englande folke to goon pilgrimages.
Frome everiches farme and shire
Frome London Towne and Lancanshire
The pilgryms toward Canterbury wended
Wyth fyve weke holiday leave extended
In hybryd Prius and Subaru
Off the Boughton Bypasse, east on M2.
Fouer and Twyntie theye came to seke
The Arche-Bishop, wyse and meke
Labouryte and hippye, Gaye and Greene
Anti-warre and libertyne
All sondry folke urbayne and progressyve
Vexed by Musselmans aggressyve.
Hieand thither to the Arche-Bishop's manse
The pilgryms ryde and fynde perchance
The hooly Bishop takynge tea
Whilste watching himselfe on BBC.
Heere was a hooly manne of peace
Withe bearyd of snow and wyld brows of fleece
Whilhom stoode athwart the Bush crusades
Withe peace march papier-mache paraydes.
Sayeth the pilgryms to Bishop Rowan,
"Father, we do not like howe thynges are goin'.
You know we are as Lefte as thee,
But of layte have beyn chaunced to see
From Edinburgh to London-towne
The Musslemans in burnoose gowne
Who beat theyr ownselfs with theyr knyves
Than goon home and beat theyr wyves
And slaye theyr daughtyrs in honour killlynge
Howe do we stoppe the bloode fromme spillynge?"
The Bishop sipped upon hys tea
And sayed, "an open mind must we
Keep, for know thee well the Mussel-man
Has hys own laws for hys own clan
So question not hys Muslim reason
And presaerve ye well social cohesion."
Sayth the libertine, "'tis well and goode
But sharia goes now where nae it should;
I liketh bigge buttes and I cannot lye,
You othere faelows can't denye,
But the council closed my wenching pub,
To please the Imams, aye thaere's the rub."
Sayeth the Bishop, strokynge his chin,
"To the Mosque-man, sexe is sinne
So as to staye in his goode-graces
Cover well thy wenches' faces
And abstain ye Chavs from ribaldry
Welcome him to our communitie."
"But Father Williams," sayed the Gaye-manne
"Though I am but a layman
The Mussleman youthes hath smyte me so
Whan on streets I saunter wyth my beau."
Sayed the Bishop in a curt replye
"I am as toolrant as anye oothere guy,
But if Mussleman law sayes no packynge fudge,
Really nowe, who are we to judge?"
Then bespake the Po-Mo artist,
"My last skulptyure was hailed as smartest
Bye sondry criticks at the Tate
Whom called it genius, brillyant, greate
A Jesus skulpted out of dunge
Earned four starres in the Guardian;
But now the same schtick withe Mo-ha-med
Has earned a bountye on my hed."
Sayed the Bishop, "that's quyte impressyve
To crafte a Jesus so transgressyve
But to do so with the Muslim Prophet
Doomed thy neck to lose whats off it.
Thou should have showen mor chivalrie
In committynge such a blasphemie."
And so it went, the pilgryms all
Complaynynge of the Muslim thrall;
To eaches same the Bishop lectured
About the cultur fabrick textured
With rainbow threyds from everie nation
With rainbow laws for all situations.
"But Father Rowan, we bathyr nae one
We onlye want to hav our funne!"
"But the Musselman is sure to see
Thy funne as Western hegemony.
'Tis not Cristian for Cristians to cause
The Moor to live by Cristendom's laws
Whan he has hise sovereyn culture
Crist bade us put ours in sepulture.
To be divyne we must first be diverse
So cheer thee well, thynges could be wors
Sharia is Englishe as tea and scones,
So everybody muste get stoned."
The pilgryms shuffled for the door
To face the rule of the Moor;
Poets, Professors, Starbucks workers
Donning turbans, veils and burqqas.
As they face theyr fynal curtan
Of Englande folk, one thynge is certan:
Dying by theyr own thousande cuts,
The Englande folk are folking nuts.