I save this seat for Albion

Sing a swan song England.
Sing it loud and proud,
To the tune that comes from the land once known as Albion.
Now known as Britain, Blighty, England of the U.K.

It’s hard to know which one of you begins
And the other one ends these days.
Stuck, as you are,
Inside the worlds smallest empire.

Not too sure what independence looks like,
Sounds like, or is supposed to feel like.
All you know is that it's coming home.

That it can’t be long now,
Before the final jewel in the crown gets her day in the sun.
A proper day, of celebration,
Where people actually know what they’re celebrating about.

Maybe that you sailed the seven seas
and in four corners made democracy a thing worth looking into.
It wasn’t always pretty,
A lot got done wrong,
as an incorporated body.
As a kingdom united
You got too big for your boots
And the little people got stamped upon.

But we can forgive you your Roman tendencies,
If you mean to make amends.
If your bleeding hearts do so with sincerity,
Then stop them up.
The world does not need your pity,
But your well-mannered grace.

So be unashamed,
to raise your stiff-English heads, high
for all to see.
Dare, to show us,
What rose grows in the garden of an Albion,
Set-free,
From penny-pinching perverts
And their dreams of an Empire everlasting.

And for God’s sake,
Do it post-haste
And give those 3 lions boys a break,
From doing all of Saint Georgie's heavy lifting.