#6 Sweet Dreams

Last night I had the strangest dream, I do not lie, e.g.,
Whilst my English helix a-watering,
All immigrants took up the battle-cry-
FROM NOW ON, e.g., and moved back home,
To practise their Own Good Culture
And leave my Morris to such as I.

I do not dance it, myself,
But others should,
For when lost is culture good,
Society surely suffereth.

And, further, in my dream,
My very own Good English Dream,
Mr. Carthy, Martin, sending his guitar to Spain,
An English Cittern did accquire,
Musicians, followed suit, never did they tire,
To Greece bouzoukis went, a significant cultural gain,
And little organs sounded on England's Fair and Pleasent Green,
Again.

"Our roast is our boast; not foreign curree,"
Said our Own Good English delegate, echoing me.
Against capitalist migration, the UN did decree,
Which prospect filled my own good self with glee.

'Multiculturalism is fallen, is fallen, is fallen,'
The bells (all closely associated with England) did toll,
'Multiculturalism is fallen, to rise no more.'
Women gave up tennis, put the kettle on,
For tea, naturally,
And none cared for to sing in harmonee.

I woke up,
Much the sadder,
   On pottage did sup,
Then my heart turned gladder,
                  For I now knew,
                   That the way forward,
                              For humanity,
                                 Nothing could stop.