Leaving

Through me among the people lost for aye –
Dante

We were set upon by the leopard
the lion and the stinking she-wolf –
also known in these parts as Pleasure
Ambition and that foul Avarice –
whilst stiff Reason stood off-stage
with no straight lines or measures –
as our small state folded in on itself –
as our families split because of it –
and now wade through a cesspit
left by the cage-padding haters

British Summer Time

Do not turn back the clocks
unless you have the time
to reset your circadian rhythm
and so to fall into line

The Leavers love the thought
that Europe will end this game –
so that Britain will reverse
to a different time again

Perhaps revisiting 1916
and war-footings everwhere –
The cowards will stay in Britain
because Europe is over there

White feathers for the three –
for Gove – Johnson and Mogg –
may they seek some forgiveness
from the dead who fought for love

And in the spring in England –
as good times rush to leave –
those rotters on the omnibus
won’t stand by lies they weaved

New Broom

She’ll not be swept back
to Downing Street,
her election broom snapped
under the weight;

the Tories will seek
‘a strong and stable’ hand,
to pick up the broom
and lead these lands.

For now she will clean
without the right tools,
whilst Boris and Rudd
agree which of them rules.

The UK untidy,
until the new cleaner sweeps,
austerity to continue
because brooms aren’t cheap.

Foreign Parts


The Turks have bought Illustrious,
Lusty Рas known to her crews;
launched by Princess Margaret,
when only warships would do.

The Near East will get to break her,
she’s going to be shaped into tanks,
or cans of low-calorie soda,
produced to sate the fat yanks;

but neither tin will save us,
as our slimmed-down navy sinks,
minimal strength is far healthier,
with reduced-fat defence.

We’ll send them Boris (instead),
barking like a rabid pooch,
he’ll get back our oldest enemies,
every time he opens his mouth.

But St. Theresa’s had enough
of her blonde Secretary’s games,
she’s sending him up to Sleaford,
to fight UKIP’s foreign gains.


Grudge Match


No new-built Britannia,
no tax-pirate ship:
A small piece of Britain!
It’ll cost zillions of quids!

A gift for us all!
Worth every penny!
But pounds buy less,
unsure how many:

A floating gin palace?
Build no more yachts,
we’re pre-Brexit sunk,
we have spent the pot;

now England’s stuck
at Scottish loggerheads,
build deathly Successors,
load the warheads,

aim them at Holyrood,
and prepare for launch,
Eton mess made good
by Boris’ first war.