Oak gall

The rotten Oak lives on, replete with fruit;
fed by its heart’s decay, it boasts success.
Enthusiastic branches bow that trunk
and pay full homage to its patronage.
Once backbone’s true-grain majesty held sway
but now corrupt, dark process feeds a shell;
that core, long since bereft of virtue’s ring
usurped, degraded; meeting falsehoods needs.
So stands Great Britain: posturing the World
while cant, hypocrisy and turpitude –
it’s Rotten Boroughs – make up Parliament
where talk is cheap; truth economical.
On Trade and Trident British pride stands tall
but like that tree, core-rotten, we shall fall.