Thurbage's Empire

Since Drake's first voyage, stout British chaps
Have wielded great Britannia's Pax,
Bowled off-breaks and caught anthrax
From Poona to Lahore.

God on their side, the red-coat ranks
Built white-washed courts and septic tanks,
Spread gonorrhoea and Eton cant,
And kept the nig nogs poor.

Where are they now? They who, so soon,
Conquered the sweating Cameroon,
The posturing, gibbering bands-of-baboons,
Protectors of the Law.

Reincarnated bureaucrats!
Where Governors ruled, committees act,
Procedural drivel, egos fat,
Enforcing Parkinson's Law.

Crusaders; battling crimes against us,
No tyrant's free from such fair censures,
Not Bantus, Tailors, Soldiers, Sailors,
Can flee the righteous war.

Proud heritage of autocratic rule,
Opinions aired, roads cleared of Robbers' sons,
Discounts arranged! Politicians stung!
Great seminars set up! and typing done,
And yearly more and more

Ambitious politicking masked.
Suave donkey rides—a student farce,
Where kicking stubborn tailor's ass,
Makes the envious applaud.

None can insure, not even Lloyds,
Against the wrath of sharp-eyed birds,
The beaks, who plunge to purge the herd,
And carry out their law.

Lament us all, the empires end!
But they march on, gun swapped for pen,
We're only left with Swaziland,
Committee rooms and Princess Anne,
The Shetland Isles and Windsor's halls,
Dieu et Mon Droit, and sweet Rockall.