Voices in the King's Head

In the Friday night clamour of smoke and ale froth
We gather to dispense
With the language of the English,
And round the table cut the bandsaw rhythm of
Norwegian Geordie, Smuggled Cornish,
And the taste of tin on the tonsils
As the flat Barnsley vowels
Slap and slide.
In the corner,
Black as the Pentlands in December,
The lowland treacle mixes with
The curling stone consonants of the Cheviots
And runs aground on the barnacled
Inflections of Grimsby.

But this is how its always been.

Once it was monks and drovers,
Chapmen, tenters and tinkers.
Now its reps, keepers and software analysts
Who are making sure
We are a nation at war with the common enemy
Of the Queen’s English.