I was born and I was bred
and fed by hand and silver spoons
with raw meat. Not upon street cred
nor education grown by goons.
Who will lance this monstrous boil?
I will, with my magic mulcher,
and pour my smooth, anointed oil
upon this mud which schools call culture.
All this 'relevance'! One pukes
to think the canon is not vital –
it's time that one put up one's dukes
and fought for every classic title.
England is in moral panic,
its children bound to come a cropper,
unless they're given dates (organic),
and taught their history, right and proper.
I have Egbert on my face,
and Good Queen Bess beneath my kilt;
and I have run this island race
on solid soil, and not on silt.
My metaphors may well be mixed,
but voguish rogues must be denied.
It's time our history was fixed.
My genes – do they look modified?