IMPERIAL MAN

Very good with rods and poles
And rods that make a chain;
Excellent with acres
When the summer comes again;
His furlongs are a treasure
To the man who has to pace them:
Two hundred yards and twenty more-
The athletes have to race them.

Not half an inch or foot too far,
No weight that tips a feather;
His measurements must be precise
Or things won’t fit together.
An expert he, Imperial Man,
Who loved King Edwards’s arm.
Until the metric men move in
And started causing harm.

You cannot get a gallon now,
It has to be a litre!
To satisfy some nut abroad
The yard becomes a God-knows-what!
Some silly milli-spaces,
‘Cause Brussels says, “Let’s unify
All European places.”

Nonsense, mate! I’ll walk a mile
As I have always done!
I’ll buy a pound of cheese or ham,
Of kilograms have none!

Our culture is a precious thing,
An island we love well!
And if you do not like it, mate,
Then you can go to Hell!

By John Pool