Fluttering weakly in the breeze

Left in the wake of the train's passing,

George's proud flag hung limp

From the pole,

Weathered and worn,

Like a tired old soul.


It's procurement no doubt,

was a misplaced, ill-thought out

statement of pride,

A belligerent shout

At the fresh-off-the-boat,

Here for the so-called ride.


The flag was once clear,

But Britannia's grey skies had

Poured down their drink,

Washing the colours,

Calming the passion,

From red into pink.


The train swept past,

It's multicultural seats

Brimming in rainbow hues,

As the punters sped

To the proud parade

Of the minority few.


They saluted the flag,

Laughter from lipstick,

Teasing it's impotence,

As the hated flag

Unexpectedly praised

Their innocence.


The train traveled on,

Past gardens like embassy roofs,

Displaying flags in retort;

Their bright bold colours

From every shore

Joined in support.


No tears for poor George,

Confused in his ways,

Run up a flagpole to fall and decay.

So sad to see, thought Union Jack,

As he flew with his friends

And waved at the track.