Jean Hayes

Old men with dogs roam the neglected parkWhere they once played as boys. Now take a peepInto the lounge of Number Twenty  ThreeThe Meads. Four sturdy youngsters sitBefore a slick computer, playing  games.A milky, midget, artifical skyHolds them enraptured. Sterile  bullets flashAnd flicker, stuttering across the  screen,While Mother whisks around her  microwavePreparing instant meals from plastic  packs.Better to stay indoors. It’s clean and  nice.That dog-polluted field is a disgrace.Besides it makes less work for  Mummy. SoThe piper bleeps, luring his victims onThrough the dark doorway. Deep  inside that hillAll children are forever quiet and still.

Saint George has spent years in denial.His image has had a bad press.There’s been, as shrinks say, for some whileA problem he needs to address. I suppose it’s not really surprisingHe’s pining for something to clout,For even with wide advertisingThere aren’t many dragons about. And where is the Maiden Worth Saving?(To find any maiden is rare.)White flags with red crosses are waving.His country is deep in despair. This England is full of old womenWho’d love to be saved by a Saint.The Union flag needed trimming.Old age is disguised by war paint. There’s a wild Paper Dragon in BrusselsWhose fierce breath brings tears to old eyes.Our Patron is flexing his muscles.Saint George, England needs you. Arise!