It was everywhere, but everywhere – the cross of
Old Saint George.
On cars, on faces, in all the shops.
A symbol of Nation, a symbol of Pride.
A symbol of England – if you cared to subscribe.
Used to be the Union Jack that trailed our coarse
Adventurers, as they crossed borders for their team.
A tarnished emblem, torn and frayed.
Ugly, unwanted, alone.
So there came a rebirth – of sorts. The white ground
Speared with vivid red. Plain, but sharp it flew so high.
Adorned with every club – from Aldershot to York.
One flag, one country; eternally hoping and dreaming.
Only to be let down (again) by millionaires with feet of clay.