England

Three lions weep,
An English rose wilts,
Saint George hangs his head low,

Have we lost our way?
A lethargic populace and uncaring elite,
A blight of bigotry,

England is drunk upon past glories,
Like wines taken from distant lands,
At sabre point,

Empire is dead,
We are the ashes,
Soon to be scattered,

Our brothers of the Hills,
The Lochs,
The Isles,
And across the sea,
All creeds and ways of life,
All forsaken,

We are part of this world,
We do not hold thrones above it,
Humanity is our real flag,
Hubris has painted a sorry picture,
Something akin to a red cross.

The Few

After months of planning,
The sea lion begins its attack,
Teeth bared,
A black cap upon its head,
And an iron cross on its breast,
Its minions swarm overhead,
Ready to drop hell upon the Isle.

Who can stave off the sea lions bite?

Men of the Isle,
Exiles from the east,
And allies from the west,
The bravest of pilots,
The Few.

They take to the heavens,
In their seraphs of war,
Raging Hurricanes,
And surging Spitfires,
Aces against the storm.

Remember their heroism,
303rd, 401st and 312nd,
Remember their names,
11th, 74th and 609th,
Brothers and comrades,
The Few.

The Battle of Britain calls,
This will be their finest hour.