This is the way the Brits like it:
Jesus all pronged by croquet hoops on the east lawn,
Ophelia face down amongst the koi carp -
that sort of lark.
Never better than when framed
by chunks of blasting architecture,
the bulldog dragging his game leg
through runny landscapes of beef
and offal, pocket watches gleaming
in stiffening hands,
mechanisms seized with something
dark and acrid.
What are we without a Blitz
to turn us to whizzing shards?
Where are we without a bully
to present our glass jaws to,
to wait for that exquisite crunch?