Poem -

The Old Country

The Old Country

Oh to be in England now that spring is here,
​​​​but you're not there since you went to heaven my dear,
when I came back, many of the houses were so small,
wide open spaces didn't seem to be anywhere at all.

However, other things remained - fake cynicism unequalled,
never foreigners - that's what all the others were called,
of course, there was 'multi' now which became 'Muti,'
but the underlying stigmas remained, worse it seemed to me.

Ironically, a bit like the apartheid regime which was mean,
atlhough transport was full of every colour it would seem;
the head boy had been brown, adept at giving a clip,
and if necessary, nicely shooting Starmer from the hip.

Imran Khan bowled a curved ball which was a mystery,
they call me the same everywhere, I'm still a 'bloody Paki.'

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