Bruised and battered,
Brought low by its own benighted will,
Perfidious Albion crawls toward its golden dawn.
The high priests of Brexit now
Preach that, just as
Plucky little Blighty
Won in ’45,
So We Have Won Again.
This time the prize
Will not be having played an honourable part
In a defeat of fascism,
But blue passports for all and
Unicorns that frolic on the sunlit uplands.
Plague Island
As it has become,
Is governed by clueless clowns;
Corrupt and cronyistic,
Liars every one.
A tousle-haired buffoon,
A Ghost of Years Gone West;
A gurning schoolboy who proclaims
This country is ‘the best!’
Let’s not forget the bully,
Who loves being smirkingly cruel,
And all their colleagues who believe
Poor children should feast on gruel.
Don’t forget the one who claimed expenses for his stable
Or he who dished out housing deals
To those around his table.
Recall the dolt who didn’t know
That Calais is rather near!
And the cheesy one whose trade deal claims
Bring forth an embarrassed tear.
Who voted for this bunch of goons,
Fiddling while the country burns?
It wasn’t me.
But have I done enough
To counter all their lies and obfuscation?
Or am I some sort of Vichyite,
Happy to go with the flow,
Avoiding complication?
I really don’t have a crib sheet,
I don’t really know what it means.
But I do know we need to be sharper
To think logically and
Not just to dream.
For dreams will not bring us progress;
And dreams will not combat the lies.
So put shoulder to the wheel
And hope we might learn to be wise.
December 2020
