You know the type;
Too much tartan and sabre rattling patter,
Flag-waving Olympics of victimhood,
Too much stout cried into,
Not enough solidarity with the brothers and sisters of another race,
Rivers of green,
Misty-eyed Brigadoon images of a past,
A past that was created for commerce.
The folk songs that remain unsung,
The ones that never get an airing,
Are often the vessels of truth,
In a post-truth world.
We have much to protest about,
More than ever as the disunited kingdom,
Drifts further away from its European cousins,
And into a morass of anomie.
I'll still raise a glass of Guinness,
Though for very different reasons;
Here's to cultural amnesia, folks.