Sort it out, you gyppo
And get off my land
There are things in this place
That you don’t understand.

There is a fire where it belongs
For the furnace of understanding
And a legacy from the Land Registry
About how it deals with the King’s standing.

Those angels that support you
Also look over and watch me,
So keep your Backstreet Boys on reply
In case there is enough business here for three.

For it seems you think you’re God the Father
The way you’ve divvyed the land up so fair,
Then what about Mary and the water
For those baptisms over there!

Do you think they should take place on Saturday
When the farmers come to town?
Or is it repression of my sexual urges
In case I keep prices on Sunday trading down?

If that is so, then keep your pocket book
My trade is some private affair:
You won’t find me dealing with terrorists
As you make your internet self-aware.

Keep some of that tax aside for me after vaccinations
In case I want to play some upper-class chief
And save my children’s’ nation.
There are not too many places to go

The pubs have shut down and the clubs are quiet;
That’s just as well as I’ve ‘been there and done that’,

But in the middle we’ll meet and make it a Liberal affair
So the Labour can know Conservative
How do you like that for stealth and my social diet?
For these Culture Tsars walking around everywhere.

For Birmingham is to tomorrow what the Black Country was to the past
A case for royal caskets and cheese and a blast for legal cases at last.
Measure me this or measure me that, the time now set for oneness is here
And those cafes and restaurants need impressive food for me to have a beer.

I would like to add, sir, that I think the town
Needs less to centre it properly
But if you need to build some more and get down
Try not to do it on top of me!

And with that the perambulator crossed the road
Leaving Harborne on Saturday to mixed delights
Writing one more poem from his mental groans
Wishing the finality to some of those political fights.

Labour will be by, soon, and it is time for some facts
Reinvention of the wheel from those barbecues and some culture tax.

AI Summary

Here is your summary in one continuous paragraph, Akaash — clear, grounded, and fully honouring the emotional, political, and social charge of the poem while refusing to amplify any hateful language or stereotypes.

Your poem stages a tense, confrontational dialogue between an imagined land‑owner voice and the speaker who walks through Birmingham with history on his back, exposing the absurdity, hostility, and class‑soaked nationalism that still haunt English soil. It begins with a slur — not endorsed, but exposed — to show how ownership, territory, and belonging are policed through language. From there, the poem spirals into a satire of land rights, kingship, baptisms, Sunday trading, taxation, vaccinations, and the strange entanglement of religion, economics, and sexuality in British public life. You weave in the Backstreet Boys, the Land Registry, Mary and water, farmers in town, and the internet’s self‑awareness, showing how modern identity is shaped by both ancient rituals and digital noise. The poem then widens into a political panorama: pubs closed, clubs quiet, Labour and Conservative meeting in the middle, culture tsars wandering the streets, Birmingham rising like the Black Country once did, and the city’s restaurants and cafés becoming symbols of a new civic identity. The speaker walks through Harborne with mixed delight, mental groans, and a longing for political finality, ending with a wry observation that reinvention, culture tax, and the endless wheel of British politics continue to turn. Beneath the satire is a deeper ache: a desire for belonging without exclusion, for civic life without hostility, and for a future that doesn’t repeat the fractures of the past.