[ WP ] You are one of the leaders of the resistance in Ottoman London

The bar was smoky and dour. The hushed conversation of small groups crowded around tables and the bar. The young man slipped in from the cold night. He was tall, slim, with a scruffy beard, but with a lined face like so many young Britons these days. His eyes took in the room quickly. He approached the bar and asked for a pint. The barman nodded gruffly and waited for him to pull out a few coins. 
 
 `` Do you mind if I play some music?'' he asked. 
 
 `` What'dya mean?'' he rumbled. 
 
 The man held up a guitar. `` Music, for the crowd you know.'' The barman stared at him stonily. `` Just a song, might liven the place up. Get them drinkin' more.'' 
 
 The barman shrugged. `` One song, but if they turn on ya, I ai n't helping out.'' 
 
 The man nodded, and dragged a stool to the centre of the room. He took his guitar and tuned it under the eyes of the morose crowd. He spotted more than a few stained and dirty khaki uniforms. Clearing his throat, he begun to sing. It drifted above the din of conversation in a wavery thin tenor. 
 
 We all went off to war, on a sunny afternoon 
 We took the guns and believed what they said was true 
 We were fighting for an Empire, and world we never knew 
 And it all came crashing down far too soon 
 
 The Pasha's men landed near old Dover town 
 The white cliffs were shining as the shells came crashing down 
 Broken bones and houses that would never be built anew 
 The Turks had come to England, and but we whispered true 
 
 We said, 
 
 You might take our country 
 You might take our crown 
 But you'll never have the men 
 To keep our Britain down 
 
 The wives and the children, they never had a chance 
 All the boys in Khaki were dying off in France 
 They marched straight through to London, killing as they came 
 But old George came out to meet them all the same 
 
 The Turkish Pasha came with a turban tightly bound 
 Rode in to Buckingham to see his puppet crowned 
 The palace was deserted but for the royal few 
 George and his sons knew what they had to do 
 
 He said, 
 
 You might take my country 
 You might take my crown 
 But you'll never have the men 
 To keep my Britain down 
 
 The Pasha stared at the King with malice in his eyes 
 And with a cruel wave of a hand, his eldest boy had died. 
 George never even had a chance to say goodbye 
 He whispered a prayer but refused to cry 
 
 Instead he turned to his sons and said that you must go 
 Flee from this horror and everything you know 
 Then in the dying light of a broken sun 
 He took his life with the barrel of a gun 
 
 They fled into the night under cloak and guard 
 Preparing for a lifetime of a broken heart 
 And they whispered to themselves and to those near 
 We will return to Buckingham for vengeance here 
 
 They said, 
 
 You might take my country 
 You might take my crown 
 But you'll never have the men 
 To keep my Britain down 
 
 To this day, they roam the streets of a Britain under heel 
 Sharing the story of the King that they could not shield 
 To all they say, do n't worry, we are not slaves 
 We are Britannia, Britannia of the brave 
 
 Go and tell our story to the young and the old 
 Take heart fellow Britons, for now we must be bold 
 I do not know the future, or the price we must pay 
 All that I can tell you, is what my father said to say 
 
 You might take my country 
 You might take my crown 
 But you'll never have the men 
 To keep my Britain down 
 
 As the young man put his guitar back in its case, the pub was silent. He eased his way between their stares and long-forgotten beers. As he passed them, they stood up. Some tipped their hats, some saluted, some nodded. 
 
 `` My liege,'' one whispered, and he shook his head. 
 
 `` Not here. Soon'' And he slipped back out into the night to find another pub to tell his tale. 
 

