Culture is its own reward
It knows just what to do
It dies when you are sad enough
And remains just for a few.
It listens when you are needy
It listened when you were bad
It made history some space from geography
It left French alone with German to die.

The saddest part though is school
Where parents’ remains come to die
And time elides with past, present and future
For the Beatles to come and hide.
There’s John (rebirthed), Ringo and George
Blotting out the other one for a class we don’t give.
Lest culture survives the scrap with fighting youths at lunch
For what more money more problems has to give.

I feel self conscious in it’s presence
And worried about my manifestation on the phone
Snowy Dons at Oxford remember my Umbridge
For Gombridge trudging along down the lane.

It’s exciting when it needs to be
Colourful right up until the last
But when the TV repeats itself on the social slant
It’s royal and something that will last.
This is the way of the keeping people
And the Press that punished the independent man.
Who are you to be free from culture
When at home you invert the legal vulture (awkwardly).