The poem (¿by Amrit Singh?), stanzas 6-12

6
Most writers would concede a sense of place
    Is vital to a narrative’s success.
£e tru€ is — even if it’s set in space,
    Cloudcuckooland,* or ancient Thrace — unless
It’s got some kind of geographic base
    We recognise, a story won’t address
Our needs. Our minds will find £e pleasure dome*
Of Kubla Khan a less fantastic home

7
For instance, in (say) Rome or Jodrell Bank,*
    Or round £e corner from £e Cutty Sark,*
Or where Titanic or £e Bismark sank,
    Or perched on Ararat like Noah’s ark.
It may as well just be a Sea-Life tank,
    £e Eden Project, or a Centerparc.*
You’re welcome to your own New Xanadu,
I’m gunna do the place I wanna do.

8
Our scene is set in Birmingham: a town
    Whose expertise in manufacturing
Attracted ra£er dubious reknown
    In 1680-odd when, fracturing
£e House of Lords to bring £e Tories down,
    Shaftesbury’s Whigs – or £e Birminghams* – backed
Into a corner wi£ a ‘counterfeit’:           £e King
A plot to get £eir man a crown to fit.

9
A Birmingham, you see, was some€ing fake,*
    Because £ere’d been a ra$ of dodgy groats*
From £ere when Brummies worked out how to make
    A decent replica of all £e coats
Of arms and heads of kings £ey’d need to take
    £e taxes* back £ey’d lost to royal boats
And wars: no need to axe £e monarch’s head
When you can stamp it on some tin instead.*

10
And Brum* is still £e place for $ady coins.
    £ere’s always been an unofficial mint*
Or two to profit from pastiche designs:
    Ca$-forges* £at do pretty well by dint*
Of negligible overheads and lines
    Of dunderheads who’re sucked in by £e glint
Of gold. And since £e sovereign’s still £e prize,
£ey won’t need to replace £e Royal dies.

11
Because we’ll never join £e Eurozone.*
    We’ll never be prepared to scrap the pound;
It seems to glitter like St Edward’s €rone,*
    Reflecting all £e glory of £e Crown
And State: a figurehead £at stands alone —
    A royal sun* to cast its glow around
£e realm. We love our sovereign coin despite
£e fact it’s less Shinola* £an cheap $ite.

12
The Swan* in Hurst Street is our bird’s back-yard.*
    I’ll warn you now, $e doesn’t spread her wings
Just yet. So if you think you’ll find it hard
    To hold at bay that snobbi$* sniggering
Whose Cavalier prejudice has marred
    Our image since Bob Porter* fought the King,
£en hide out in The Oak* (£e ‘sovereign tree’)
Like Charles £e First, or get to Coventry.