At the End of the Day



I’ve a dream some nights
where we all go to Heaven –
the world’s put to rights,
and there’s tea before seven.

The kids are still tiny,
as light as a feather
our values are shiny –
we’re all bound together.

There’s no crooked bobbies
or BBC spin,
no junk mail in our lobbeys
to chuck in the bin.

No laws against hate crime
no Guardian lies
no fluffy Remainers
with swivelling eyes.

No one mouths off or swaggers
and banks all have tellers
(but no carpetbaggers
or packaged-bond sellers).

Belgium has nowt
but the chocolate makers.
No man is a tout
(there are no undertakers).


But last night my sleep
brought a mineshaft black vision
of George Orwell sheep
and a world of division –
of Angela Merkels
and Macronic Orders,
with more vicious circles
and no federal borders.

A screen on a pole
bade me stoop to obey,
brought a scream from my soul
at the start of each day.

But this time the fist
of the beast in the monitor
held not a list
but a deadly chronometer.

It was a malfunction –
a bomb that was ticking,
an unconcious unction –
so ripe for the picking.
My fingers stretched out
plucked the forbidden fruit.
I uttered a shout –
took the Resistance route.

I’d stolen their hate:
they turned up in short order
(my plastic betrayed
a vain dash for the border)
but the watch held the heads-up
of all items broadcast –
I used it to wake up
electorates so vast.

They killed me at source,
but the murder was Pyrhhic:
my funereal course
took in every last cynic
and smuggie from Surrey’s
multicultural quest
in search of the curries
we British love best.


“It could not happen here!”
cry the Reds in Momentum –
“You’ve nothing to fear!”
drawl the Blues in their centum.

A mundane esperanto
of parlous linguistics,
and mendacious panto
of cheerful statistics
has brought us to where we are now –
in this jungle
where each sacred cow
must defend every bungle
created by those
we elected to serve
who all lack the nose
to discern how much nerve
we think they all own
to assume they’ve the right
like a dog with a bone
to stay up all night
in a Palace defended
by infamous bubons –
a Bastille descended
from rapacious Bourbons.

A dream is a world
made unfeasibly better.
A nightmare unfurled
is a place where the letter
of Law is applied
to make us all equal –
like serfs in a tide
to which there’s no sequel.