This is a poem I wrote in response to Brexit, mostly out of anger at the hypocrisy of people who want to deport EU nationals but still eat in French, Italian, Greek etc restaurants. Who do they think is going to cook all that food for them?
Off the Menu
by Lucy Gabriel
Welcome to the Albion Arms!
Previously the George and Dragon --
he was Greek (George, that is),
so we've reclaimed our sovereignty.
Here's our new menu,
we've changed the jacket from red to blue.
No longer a foreign affair,
we only serve the best of British here.
Pasta, while popular, has no place.
No lasagne, carbonara, macaroni cheese.
Likewise tapas and taster plates.
You'll be pleased to see we've got the EU out.
Curry is counter-cultural.
Chicken tikka masala, born here
but its ancestry is from the colonies.
We don't use seasonings spicier than salt.
We've made changes to breakfast,
the "Full English" isn't quite.
Baked beans are American as apple pie,
tomatoes Mexican, and hash browns, well--
potatoes are a problem.
Originally from Peru,
they've integrated well
but aren't exactly native.
Which means no fish and chips,
bangers and mash, bubble and squeak.
The Sunday roast is missing some trimmings,
don't get me started on the origins of onions.
What's that, not your cup of tea?
Not a problem, we don't serve it here.
There's a reason they say
not for all the tea in China.
