Upon a lawn of manicured despair, where daisies dare not deviate a millimetre, sits Cornelius, with a practiced, vacant stare, and tea that’s grown significantly bitter. The sky is—naturally—a shade of "grief," a ceiling made of damp and heavy wool; It offers no salvation or relief, save for the chance to call the French a fool. Observe the scone, a calcified delight, constructed to defy the human jaw; with clotted cream applied—by sovereign right— Before the jam, as per the ancient law. "I’m terribly sorry," he says to a stone, having tripped on it during his walk. For a Briton is never more truly alone than when forced into meaningful talk. The empire’s shrunk to the size of a shed, where rusted shears and spiders hold the line; "It could be worse," is all that need be said, while sipping lukewarm, market wine. So raise a chipped and gilded porcelain cup, to centuries of muddling somehow through; of keeping every bottled feeling up, and wishing that the sun would... well, adieu.
