Ralph Windle RW

From Russia with Love

God! I will pack, order my plane,
And get me to England once again.

For England’s the one land I know
Where a Moscow parvenu may go,
Make Kensington by ten to three,
And know there’s caviar still for tea.

By private jet to Luton town,
We Oligarchs are raining down,
Sikorski rotors idling free
To whisk us on to Battersea;
And thence by liveried chauffeur
To One Hyde Park or Berkeley Square;

Or other bijou pieds-a-terre,
Courtesy of Candy Bros, and where
Your media, oil or metals Czar,
Who’s dreamed of Xanadu from afar.
May each his pleasure dome decree,
Unhassled by the KGB.

To Knightsbridge and to Belgrave Square
We come, the exiled billionaires,
Who’ve swapped our hammers and our sickles
For Harrods, Heals and Harvey Nichols;
Let loose our friendly business drones
On Stamford Bridge and Waterstones.

Say, where’s such Beauty yet to find?
Such certainty, such quiet mind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain? …oh! Yet

Stands Big Ben’s clock at ten to three ?
And is there caviar still for tea ?