British Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

British



British

Grandpa come to life
Bring with you; dad along
Celebrate; we must hug
It's over; for sure died

You recall you told us:
'It is all Brits' fault.'
They are gone and have died.

History did its work,
Painter holds his brush
Paint in hand, in drums

The islands and the ships
States, then, everything
Will go back to old names
If not; new they will bear

Without them; no Brit
Even here in North West
We called it, ‘the B. C.'
It's changing by request

Time masters all of us
Now it is ‘British' time.

Monday, November 24, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: time
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