Brexit Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,
Accept that the point of no return has come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky that ‘Common Sense is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the necks of white doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

Whilst the fat cats in Parliament tally their scores,
The stipends are paid to the media whores.
The spin doctors and bullshitters prepare each careful verse.
The iron bank of England steadies it’s purse.

The clown ruffles his hair and again takes the light,
Rehearsing his victory speech he’ll deliver tonight.
Bringing joy to the Leavers, but ‘Remainers’ to tears,
He’ll overlook all of his lies in the last tumultuous three years.

But we’ll all still remember just how we got here,
The deceits, the falsehoods, the promotion of fear.
The gross misrepresentations, when the dice was first cast.
An ugly, divisive and bitter campaign to the last.

Adapted from W.H.Auden’s ‘Funeral Blues’ 

%d bloggers like this: