Green with envy, or to burn,
white, like wash, we’ve come to learn;
though in the pink, at times, we’ve been,
we’re often forced to wear a grin.

A flag of convenience, we became,
for many a nation, in our name;
green, to the mast, our lot was cast,
and allowed to tatter, to our shame.

Tudor pink for tougher times,
and much red ink, between the lines,
prescribed a destiny on this rock,
where no mean feat would turn the clock.

Colours fade, unless they’re fast,
and firmly fastened to the mast;
on the fly, the pink prevailed,
telling all, its sordid tale.

The big jib draws, the schooner sails,
among the waves by its gunwales;
the banner bears the last lament,
as to greener shores, our ship was sent.

We barely saw the whites of ayes,
which sealed our fate from several tries;
where independence lost its voice,
when someone thought, there was no choice.

Green, white and pink, a figment now,
on our imagination’s bow;
still flying high, it heaves a sigh,
and softly weeps, as it wipes its brow.

  Submitted By: Robert LeMessurier