Oh thou, who does represent the most exact appearance of all that well-mannered peoples do despise, how do you today?
A very Milton like how de do those of my past compatriots laying within ye olde folke swaddling’s awaiting the onset of the new proven Britain, risen from the waves and once more fit to rule the globe from a position but one single rung below that housing the messiah and all his multitude of archangels.
I do jest of course, does I?
My heart possesses no desire for a rekindling of Empire, and all the terrible sins that edifice do hide beneath her flowing Britannic skirts. I do not hanker for that prestigious past, the proud icon that all the English-speaking world has aimed to continue, polish, make most glorious, unquestionable, undeniable.
But on occasion, with my eyes tight shut, and a patriotic air upon my lips, I admit to my eternal damnation I may dream, fantasizing about a realm whose mountains, hills and valleys contain Jerusalem, beset on all sides with dark satanic mills.