These days George is a binge drinker,

wears his red cross tabard down the pub;

not much of a religious thinker,

worships footy with his Sunday grub.

 

Pawned his knightly armour long ago,

gave the lance to pay his bookie’s bill.

Golden Dragon, Saturday he’ll go

with his wayward mates and drink his fill.

 

Monday morning finds him back at work,

hiding from the gaffer’s eagle eye;

does his level best to skive and shirk,

just because he’s now that kind of guy.

 

Sometimes he remembers distant times,

errantry and glories of the past,

tempered with the thoughts of foreign climes,

tells himself he knew it couldn’t last.

 

Wonders how it all came down to this,

how the Brits had led him so astray;

curry after all night on the piss

every year upon St George’s Day.