How it seems, How it is.

A humourous exploration of how many foreigners wish Britain was, and how it really is.

You may wish for a Georgian lamppost.

Our street's mostly dark. There's this

Grey thing with a light on the end,

I mean, yeah, it's a lamppost, but not how you'd like it.

  

You'd love to see a man in a top hat, his

Tails flowing gracefully behind him.

I know a guy with a snap-back cap, who wears

his trousers so low that when he stole from the chippy they caught him cos

he fell over his jeans on the way out.

That happened twice.

   

There are Scouse over there, 

Having a natter, having a chin-wag.

My god those eyebrows really are something.

  

There's the school bus. Nearly all

My friends get on that. Guess it must be fun, 

Laughing with your mates about some geezer on the pavement who is

"Proper fit-like" and munching on midget gems or Mars bars.

  

We've got a pretty red letter box.

Yeah, over there by the Butcher's,

In front of the chav bench. Yeah, wouldn't go near them

If I were you. Might catch herpes or summat.

   

And our busses aren't pillar-box red out here. They're

Blue and green, and I wouldn't go on them if I were you,

Lest a peasant sneeze and you'd catch the lurgy.

   

But we have our rains and our pours,

And our barmy gaffers and piggies,

And our chippies and fit blokes ,

And our swots and our titches,

And our well-chuffed and our codswallap,

And dim twits we have to sort out,

And the jammy twats we want to kick in the goolies because 

This place is potty, twee and arse-about-face.

This place is better.

This place is Britain.

The End

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