At the End of the Day

The Brexit Bard

Now is the winter of our disconnect
made false summer by the Cameron kilt;
and clowns that pour vain Schultzes on our roof
be raised from every ocean buried.
Now are our brows stained with vainglorious wreaths –
and onanistic hands proclaimed as monuments….
our stained alarums changed to merry greetings
after forced marches hailing phantom measures
brought back from this bogus battle held.
And now – instead of mounting barded steeds
to fright the souls of fearful adversaries –
Dave caters to the Behemoth of Brussels
and its careless playing of seductive lute.
For he, that cares not for our freedoms
 courts a narcisstic looking-glass –
the better to embrace his cock
and strut before a wanton ambling nymph.
We who are curtail’d of this unfair proportion –
cheated of defences by recessive nature –
deformed, unfinish’d, conned before our time
into this Union of death, with minds half made up
 are now asked to vote
while lame and toothless dogs of whore
 bark at me, “Just sign here”.
There is a weak but piping time of peace,
and we delight to pass away the time
in gloating on a shadow in the sun –
wherein our new deformity
replaced a humble lover
who did once dominate well-spoken days,
 against the villainy of those who would our freedom kill.
I hate the idle pleasures of our days –
these plots distracting with their
drunken prophecies of realised dreams
to set my decent brethren now
in deadly hate the one against the other.
And if the Hoey Nigels are as true and just
as Camerlot be treacherously false,
then shall these Isles be girded by
the prophecy, which says that we of
Harry’s line shall yet be free
to dive into the depths of every soul and be
the bastion of liberty.